i  • 


EUGENE  WOOD 


BACK  HOME 


The    Swimming-Hole 


Back  Home 

By 
EUGENE   WOOD 


Let  us  sing  of  the  days  that  are  gone,  Maggie, 
When  you  and  I  were  young." 


ILLUSTRATED    BY    A.   B.  FROST 


NEW  YORK 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 
MCMV 


Copyright,  IQOS,  by 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 

Published  September,  1905 

SECOND    IMPRESSION 


Copyright,   igoj.    1904,   1905,  by  The  S.  S.   McClure   Co.      Copyright,   1904,  by 
The  Ridgway-Thayer  Company.     Copyright,  1899,  by  Street  &  Smith. 


TO 

THE    SAINTED    MEMORY 
OF   HER   WHOM,   IN   THE  DAYS    BACK   HOME, 

I   KNEW   AS  "MY   MA   MAG" 

AND  WHO  WAS  MORE   TO  ME  THAN  I  CAN  TELL,  EVEN 

IF  MY   TARDY   WORDS   COULD   REACH   HER 

THIS   BOOK  IS   DEDICATED 

"  That  she  who  is  an  angel  now 
Might  sometimes  think  of  me" 


4!  4603 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION          ix-xxiv 

THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE 3 

THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL 38 

THE  REVOLVING  YEAR 64 

THE  SWIMMING-HOLE        95 

THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT 120 

THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT        152 

CIRCUS  DAY 174 

THE  COUNTY  FAIR 219 

CHRISTMAS  BACK  HOME 257 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE FrontispL 


lece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  BUB  IN  .  .  .His  CAP  WITH  EAR-LAPS,  AND 
LITTLE  Sis  IN  A  THICK  SHAWL,  TRUDGING 
ALONG  BEHIND  HIM  " 12 

"THE  SMOKE  GOT  IN  MY  EYES"     ....     14 
IN  THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL       54 

"YOU'RE  NOT  GOING  SWIMMING,  AND  THAT'S 
ALL  THERE  Is  ABOUT  IT" 106 

"  OLD  TIB  .  .  .  WALKED  THROUGH  THE 
WAGON-SHED,  AND  CALMLY  SCRAPED  ME 
OFF  HER  BACK" 182 

"THEN  PUT  ON  THE  COVER,  AND  TRIM  OFF 
THE  EDGE,  AND  PINCH  IT  UP  IN  SCALLOPS  "  234 

"  '  I  WOOSH'T—  I  WOOSH'T  WAS  So  WE  COULD 
HEV  PIE/  SIGHED  ONE  SUCH"  ....  236 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

GENTLE  READER:  — Let  me  make  you  ac 
quainted  with  my  book,  "Back  Home."  (Your 
right  hand,  Book,  your  right  hand.  Pity's  sakes  ! 
How  many  times  have  I  got  to  tell  you  that  ? 
Chest  up  and  forward,  shoulders  back  and 
down,  and  turn  your  toes  out  more.) 

It  is  a  little  book,  Gentle  Reader,  but  please 
don't  let  that  prejudice  you  against  it.  The  Gen 
eral  Public,  I  know,  likes  to  feel  heft  in  its  hand 
when  it  buys  a  book,  but  I  had  hoped  that  you 
were  a  peg  or  two  above  the  General  Public. 
That  mythical  being  goes  on  a  reading  spree 
about  every  so  often,  and  it  selects  a  book  which 
will  probably  last  out  the  craving,  a  book  which 
"it  will  be  impossible  to  lay  down,  after  it  is  once 
begun,  until  it  is  finished."  (I  quote  from  the 
standard  book  notice).  A  few  hours  later  the 
following  dialogue  ensues: 


XIII 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

"Henry!" 

"Yes,  dear/' 

'Are  n't  you  'most  done  reading?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  I  finish  this  chapter." 

A  sigh  and  a  long  wait. 

"Henry!" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Did  you  lock  the  side-door?" 

No  answer. 

"Henry!  Did  you?" 

"Did  I  what?" 

"Did  you  lock  the  side-door?" 

"In  a  minute  now." 

"Yes,  but  did  you?" 

"M-hm.  I  guess  so." 

"Guess  so!'  Did  you  lock  that  side-door? 
They  got  in  at  Hilliard's  night  before  last  and 
stole  a  bag  of  clothes-pins." 

"M." 

"Oh,  put  down  that  book,  and  go  and  lock 
the  side-door.  I  Tl  not  get  a  wink  of  sleep  this 
blessed  night  unless  you  do." 

"In  a  minute  now.  Just  wait  till  I  finish 
this  ..." 

"Go  doit  now." 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Mr.  General  Public  has  a  card  on  his  desk 
that  says,  "Do  it  Now,"  and  so  he  lays  down  his 
book  with  a  patient  sigh,  and  comes  back  to  it 
with  a  patent  grouch. 

"Oh,  so  it  is,"  says  the  voice  from  the  bed 
room.  "  I  remember  now,  I  locked  it  myself  when 
I  put  the  milk-bottles  out.  .  .  .  I  'm  going 
to  stop  taking  of  that  man  unless  there  Js  more 
cream  on  the  top  than  there  has  been  here 
lately." 

"M." 

"Henry!" 

"Oh,  what  is  it!" 

"Are  n't  you  'most  done  reading  ?" 

"In  a  minute,  just  as  soon  as  I  finish  this 
chapter." 

"How  long  is  that  chapter,  for  mercy's 
sakes?" 

"  I  began  another. " 

"Henry!" 

"What?" 

"Are  n't  you  coming  to  bed  pretty  soon  ?  You 
know  I  can't  go  to  sleep  when  you  are  sitting 
up." 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

"Oh,  hush  up  for  one  minute,  can't  ye  ?  It  *s  a 
funny  thing  if  I  can't  read  a  little  once  in  a  while." 

"It 's  a  funny  thing  if  I  've  got  to  be  broke  of 
my  rest  this  way.  As  much  as  I  have  to  look  after. 
I  'd  hate  to  be  so  selfish.  .  .  .  Henry! 
Won't  you  please  put  the  book  down  and  come 
to  bed?" 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake!  Turn  over  and  go  to 
sleep.  You  make  me  tired." 

Every  two  or  three  hours  Mrs.  General  Public 
wakes  up  and  announces  that  she  can't  get  a 
wink  of  sleep,  not  a  wink;  she  wishes  he  had  n't 
brought  the  plagued  old  book  home;  he  has  n't 
the  least  bit  of  consideration  for  her;  please, 
please,  won't  he  put  the  book  away  and  come  to 
bed? 

He  reaches  "THE  END"  at  2:34  A.  M.,  turns 
off  the  gas,  and  creeps  into  bed,  his  stomach  all 
upset  from  smoking  so  much  without  eating  any 
thing,  his  eyes  feeling  like  two  burnt  holes  in  a 
blanket,  and  wishing  that  he  had  the  sense  he 
was  born  with.  He  '11  have  to  be  up  at  6:45,  and 
he  knows  how  he  will  feel.  He  also  knows  how  he 
will  feel  along  about  three  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon.  Smithers  is  coming  then  to  close  up  that 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

deal.  Smithers  is  as  sharp  as  tacks,  as  slippery  as 
an  eel,  and  as  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg.  Al 
ways  looking  for  the  best  of  it.  You  need  all  your 
wits  when  you  deal  with  Smithers.  Why  did  n't 
he  take  Mrs.  General  Public's  advice,  and  get 
to  bed  instead  of  sitting  up  fuddling  himself  with 
that  fool  love-story  ? 

That's  how  a  book  should  be  to  be  a  great  popu 
lar  success,  and  one  that  all  the  typewriter  girls 
will  have  on  their  desks.  I  am  guiltily  conscious 
that "  Back  Home"  is  not  up  to  standard  either  in 
avoirdupois  heft  or  the  power  to  unfit  a  man  for 
business. 

Here  's  a  book.  Is  it  long  ?  No.  Is  it  exciting  ? 
No.  Any  lost  diamonds  in  it  ?  Nup.  Mysterious 
murders  ?  No.  Whopping  big  fortune,  now  teet 
ering  this  way,  and  now  teetering  that,  tipping 
over  on  the  Hero  at  the  last  and  smothering  him 
in  an  avalanche  of  fifty-dollar  bills  ?  No.  Does 
She  get  Him  ?  Is  n't  even  that.  No  "heart  inter 
est"  at  all.  What 's  the  use  of  putting  out  good 
money  to  make  such  a  book;  to  have  a  cover- 
design  for  it;  to  get  a  man  like  A.  B.  Frost  to 
draw  illustrations  for  it,  when  he  costs  so  like 
the  mischief,  when  there  's  nothing  in  the  book 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

to  make  a  man  sit  up  till  'way  past  bedtime  ? 
Why  print  it  at  all  ? 

You  may  search  me.  I  suppose  it  's  all  right, 
but  if  it  was  my  money,  I  '11  bet  I  could  make  a 
better  investment  of  it.  If  worst  came  to  worst,  I 
could  do  like  the  fellow  in  the  story  who  went  to 
the  gambling-house  and  found  it  closed  up,  so  he 
shoved  the  money  under  the  door  and  went 
away.  He  'd  done  his  part. 

And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  I  can  see  how 
some  sort  of  a  case  can  be  made  out  for  this  book 
of  mine.  I  suppose  I  am  wrong — I  generally 
am  in  regard  to  everything  —  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  quite  a  large  part  of  the  population  of 
this  country  must  be  grown-up  people.  If  I  am 
right  in  this  contention,  then  this  large  part  of 
the  population  is  being  unjustly  discriminated 
against.  I  believe  in  doing  a  reasonable  amount 
for  the  aid  and  comfort  of  the  young  things  that 
are  just  beginning  to  turn  their  hair  up  under, 
or  who  rub  a  stealthy  forefinger  over  their  upper 
lips  to  feel  the  pleasant  rasp,  but  I  don't  believe 
in  their  monopolizing  everything.  I  don't  think 
it  's  fair.  All  the  books  printed  —  except,  of 
course,  those  containing  valuable  information; 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

we  don't  buy  those  books,  but  go  to  the  public 
library  for  them  —  all  the  books  printed  are  con 
cerned  with  the  problem  of  How  She  can  get 
Him,  and  He  can  get  Her. 

Well,  now.  It  was  either  yesterday  morning  or 
the  day  before  that  you  looked  in  the  glass  and 
beheld  there  The  First  Gray  Hair.  You  smiled  a 
smile  that  was  not  all  pure  pleasure,  a  smile  that 
petered  out  into  a  sigh,  but  nevertheless  a  smile, 
I  will  contend.  What  do  you  think  about  it  ? 
You  're  still  on  earth,  are  n't  you  ?  You  '11  last  the 
month  out,  anyhow,  won't  you  ?  Not  at  all  ready 
to  be  laid  on  the  shelf  ?  What  do  you  think  of  the 
relative  importance  of  Love,  Courtship,  and 
Marriage?  One  or  two  other  things  in  life  just 
about  as  interesting,  are  n't  there  ?  Take  getting 
a  living,  for  instance.  That 's  worthy  of  one's  at 
tention,  to  a  certain  extent.  When  our  young 
ones  ask  us:  "Pop,  what  did  you  say  to  Mom 
when  you  courted  her?"  they  feel  provoked  at 
us  for  taking  it  so  lightly  and  so  frivolously.  It 
vexes  them  for  us  to  reply:  "Law,  child!  I  don't 
remember.  Why,  I  says  to  her:  'Will  you  have 
me  ?'  And  she  says:  'Why,  yes,  and  jump  at  the 
chance. '  "  What  difference  does  it  make  what  we 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

said,  or  whether  we  said  anything  at  all  ?  Why 
should  we  charge  our  memories  with  the  recol 
lections  of  those  few  and  foolish  months  of  mere 
instinctive  sex-attraction  when  all  that  really 
counts  came  after,  the  years  wherein  low  pas 
sion  blossomed  into  lofty  Love,  the  dear  com 
panionship  in  joy  and  sorrow,  and  in  that  which 
is  more,  far  more  than  either  joy  or  sorrow,  "  the 
daily  round,  the  common  task  ?"  All  that  is  won 
derful  to  think  of  in  our  courtship  is  the  marvel, 
for  which  we  should  never  cease  to  thank  the 
Almighty  God,  that  with  so  little  judgment  at 
our  disposal  we  should  have  chosen  so  wisely. 
If  you,  Gentle  Reader,  found  your  first  gray 
hair  day  before  yesterday  morning,  if  you 
can  remember,  'way,  'way  back  ten  or  fifteen 
years  ago  .  er  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  or 

more,  come  with  me  Let  us  go  "Back  Home." 
Here  's  your  transportation,  all  made  out  to  you, 
and  in  your  hand.  It  is  no  use  my  reminding  you 
that  no  railroad  goes  to  the  old  home  place.  It 
is  n't  there  any  more,  even  in  outward  seem 
ing.  Cummins's  woods,  where  you  had  your 
robbers'  cave,  is  all  cleared  off  and  cut  up  into 
building  lots.  The  cool  and  echoing  covered 


INTRODUCTION  xxl 

bridge,  plastered  with  notices  of  dead  and  for 
gotten  Strawberry  Festivals  and  Public  Vendues, 
has  long  ago  been  torn  down  to  be  replaced  by  a 
smart,  red  iron  bridge.  The  Volunteer  Fire 
men's  Engine-house,  whose  brick  wall  used  to 
flutter  with  the  gay  rags  of  circus-bills,  is  gone  as 
if  it  never  were  at  all.  Where  the  Union  School- 
house  was  is  all  torn  up  now.  They  are  putting 
up  a  new  magnificent  structure,  with  all  the  mod 
ern  improvements,  exposed  plumbing,  and 
spankless  discipline.  The  quiet  leafy  streets  echo 
to  the  hissing  snarl  of  trolley  cars,  and  the  power 
house  is  right  by  the  Old  Swimming-hole  above 
the  dam.  The  meeting-house,  where  we  attended 
Sabbath-school,  and  marveled  at  the  Greek 
temple  frescoed  on  the  wall  behind  the  pulpit,  is 
now  a  church  with  a  big  organ,  and  stained-glass 
windows,  and  folding  opera-chairs  on  a  slanting 
floor.  There  is  n't  any  "Amen  Corner,"  any  more, 
and  in  these  calm  and  well-bred  times  nobody 
ever  gets  "shouting  happy." 

But  even  when  "the  loved  spots  that  our 
infancy  knew"  are  physically  the  same,  a 
change  has  come  upon  them  more  saddening 
than  words  can  tell.  They  have  shrunken 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

and  grown  shabbier.  They  are  not  nearly 
so  spacious  and  so  splendid  as  once  they 
were. 

Some  one  comes  up  to  you  and  calls 
you  by  your  name.  His  voice  echoes  in 
the  chambers  of  your  memory.  You  hold 
his  hand  in  yours  and  try  to  peer  through 
the  false-face  he  has  on,  the  mask  of  a 
beard  or  spectacles,  or  a  changed  expres 
sion  of  the  countenance.  He  says  he  is  So- 
and-so.  Why,  he  used  to  sit  with  you  in  Miss 
Crutcher's  room,  don't  you  remember  ?  There 
was  a  time  when  you  and  he  walked  together, 
your  arms  upon  each  other's  shoulders.  But  this 
is  some  other  one  than  he.  The  boy  you  knew 
had  freckles,  and  could  spit  between  his  teeth, 
ever  and  ever  so  far. 

They  don't  have  the  same  things  to  eat  they 
used  to  have,  or,  if  they  do,  it  all  tastes  different. 
Do  you  remember  the  old  well,  with  the  windlass 
and  the  chain  fastened  to  the  rope  just  above  the 
bucket,  the  chain  that  used  to  cluck-cluck  when 
the  dripping  bucket  came  within  reach  to  be 
swung  upon  the  well-curb  ?  How  cold  the  water 
used  to  be,  right  out  of  the  northwest  corner  of 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

the  well!  It  made  the  roof  of  your  mouth  ache 
when  you  drank.  Everybody  said  it  was  such 
splendid  water.  It  is  n't  so  very  cold  these 
days,  and  I  think  it  has  a  sort  of  funny  taste 
to  it. 

Ah,  Gentle  Reader,  this  is  not  really  "Back 
Home"  we  gaze  upon  when  we  go  there  by  the 
train.  It  is  a  last  year's  bird's  nest.  The  nest  is 
there;  the  birds  are  flown,  the  birds  of  youth,  and 
noisy  health,  and  ravenous  appetite,  and  inex 
perience.  You  cannot  go  "  Back  Home"  by  train, 
but  here  is  the  magic  wishing-carpet,  and  here  is 
your  transportation  in  your  hand  all  made  out  to 
you.  You  and  I  will  make  the  journey  together. 
Let  us  in  heart  and  mind  thither  ascend. 

I  went  to  the  Old  Red  School-house  with  you. 
Don't  you  remember  me  ?  I  was  learning  to  swim 
when  you  could  go  clear  across  the  river  without 
once  "letting  down."  I  saw  you  at  the  County 
Fair,  and  bought  a  slab  of  ice-cream  candy  just 
before  you  did.  I  was  in  the  infant-class  in  Sab 
bath-school  when  you  spoke  in  the  dialogue  at 
the  monthly  concert.  Look  again.  Don't  you  re 
member  me  ?  I  used  to  stub  my  toe  so;  you 
ought  to  recollect  me  by  that.  I  know  plenty  of 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

people  that  you  know.  I  may  not  always  get  their 
names  just  right,  but  then  it 's  been  a  good  while 
ago.  You  '11  recognize  them,  though;  you  '11 
know  them  in  a  minute. 

EUGENE  WOOD. 


BACK  HOME 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE 

Ob,  the  little  old  red  school-bouse  on  the  bill, 

(2d  bass:  On  the  hill.) 

Oh,  the  little  old  red  school-house  on  the  hill, 
(2d  bass:  On  the  hi-hi-hi-yull.) 
And  my  heart  with  joy  o'erflows, 
Like  the  dew-drop  in  the  rose,* 
Thinking  of  the  old  red  SCHOOL-HOUSE  I  o-o-on 

the  hill, 
(2d  tenor  and  1st  bass:  The  hill,  the  hill.) 

THE  MALE  QUARTET'S  COMPENDIUM. 

IF  the  audience  will  kindly  come  forward  and 
occupy  the  vacant  seats  in  the  front  of  the 
hall,  the  entertainment  will  now  begin.  The 
male  quartet  will  first  render  an  appropriate  se 
lection  and  then.     .     .     .     Can't  you  see  them 

*  I  call  your  attention  to  the  chaste  beauty  of  this  line,  and  the  imperative 
necessity  of  the  chord  of  the  diminished  seventh  for  the  word  "rose."  Also 
"school-house"  in  the  last  line  must  be  very  loud  and  staccato.  Snap  it  off. 

I 


V'"'-'      :-:>  \\BACK  HOME 

from  where  you  are  ?  Let  me  assist  you  in  the 
visualization. 

The  first  tenor,  the  gentleman  on  the  extreme 
left,  is  a  stocky  little  man,  with  a  large  chest  and 
short  legs  conspicuously  curving  inward.  He  has 
plenty  of  white  teeth,  ash-blonde  hair,  and  goes 
smooth-shaven  for  purely  personal  reasons.  His 
round,  dough-colored  face  will  never  look  older 
(from  a  distance)  than  it  did  when  he  was  nine. 
The  flight  of  years  adds  only  deeper  creases  in 
the  multitude  of  fine  wrinkles,  and  increasing 
difficulty  in  hoisting  his  tiny,  patent-leather  foot 
up  on  his  plump  knee. 

The  second  tenor  leans  toward  him  in  a  way  to 
make  another  man  anxious  about  his  watch,  but 
the  second  tenor  is  as  honest  as  the  day.  He  is 
only  "blending  the  voices."  He  works  in  the 
bank.  He  is  going  to  be  married  in  June  some 
time.  Don't  look  around  right  away,  but  she  's 
the  one  in  the  pink  shirt-waist,  the  second  one 
from  the  aisle,  the  one  .  .  .  two  .  .  . 
three  .  .  .  the  sixth  row  back.  See  her  ? 
Say,  they  've  got  it  bad,  those  two.  What  d'  ye 
think  ?  She  goes  down  by  the  bank  every  day  at 
noon,  so  as  to  walk  up  with  him  to  luncheon.  She 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  5 

lives  across  the  street,  and  as  soon  as  ever  she  has 
finished  her  luncheon,  there  she  is,  out  on  the 
front  porch  hallooing:  "Oo-hoo!"  How  about 
that  ?  And  if  he  so  much  as  looks  at  another 
girl  —  m-M! 

The  first  bass  is  one  of  these  fellows  with  a 
flutter  in  his  voice.  No,  I  don't  mean  a  vibrato. 
It 's  a  flutter,  like  a  goat's  tail.  It  is  considered 
real  operatic. 

The  second  bass  has  a  great,  big  Adam's  apple 
that  slides  up  and  down  his  throat  like  a  toy- 
monkey  on  a  stick.  He  is  tall,  and  has  eyebrows 
like  clothes-brushes,  and  he  scowls  fit  to  make 
you  run  and  hide  under  the  bed.  He  is  really  a 
good-hearted  fellow,  though.  Pity  he  has  the  dys 
pepsia  so  bad.  Oh,  my,  yes!  Suffers  everything 
with  it,  poor  man.  He  generally  sings  that  song 
about  "Drink-ing!  DniNK-ang!  Drink-awng!" 
though  he  's  strictly  temperate  himself.  When  he 
takes  that  last  low  note,  you  hold  on  to  your  chair 
for  fear  you  '11  fall  in  too. 

But  why  bring  in  the  male  quartet  ? 

Because  "The  Little  Old  Red  School-house" 
is  more  than  a  mere  collocation  of  words,  accur 
ately  descriptive.  It  is  what  Mat  King  would  call 


6  BACK  HOME 

a  "symblem,"  and  as  such  requires  the  music's 
dying  fall  to  lull  and  enervate  a  too  meticulous 
and  stringent  tendency  to  recollect  that  it  was  n't 
little,  or  old,  or  red,  or  on  a  hill.  It  might  have 
been  big  and  new,  and  built  of  yellow  brick, 
right  next  to  the  Second  Presbyterian,  and  hence 
close  to  the  "branch,"  so  that  the  spring  fresh 
ets  flooded  the  playground,  and  the  water  lapped 
the  base  of  the  big  rock  on  which  we  played 
"King  on  the  Castle,"  -the  big  rock  so  piti 
fully  dwindled  of  late  years.  No  matter  what  the 
facts  are.  Sing  of  "The  Little  Old  Red  School- 
house  On  the  Hill. "  and  in  everybody's  heart  a 
chord  trembles  in  unison.  As  we  hear  its  witching 
strains,  we  are  all  lodge  brethren,  from  Maine  to 
California  and  far  across  the  Western  Sea;  we 
are  all  lodge  brethren,  and  the  air  is  "  Auld  Lang 
Syne,"  and  we  are  clasping  hands  across,  knitted 
together  into  one  living  solidarity;  and  this,  if  we 
but  sensed  it,  is  the  real  Union,  of  which  the  fed 
eral  compact  is  but  the  outward  seeming.  It  is  a 
Union  in  which  they  have  neither  art  nor  part 
whose  parents  sent  them  to  private  schools,  so  as 
not  to  have  them  associate  with  "that  class  of 
people. "  It  is  the  true  democracy  which  batters 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  7 

down  the  walls  that  separate  us  from  each  other 
—  the  walls  of  caste  distinction,  and  color  preju 
dice,  and  national  hatred,  and  religious  con 
tempt,  all  the  petty,  anti-social  meannesses  that 
quarrel  with 

"  The  Union  of  hearts,  the  Union  of  bands, 
And  the  ftag  of  our  Union  forever." 

Old  Glory  has  floated  victoriously  on  many  a 
gallant  fight  by  sea  and  land,  but  never  do  its 
silver  stars  glitter  more  bravely  or  its  blood-red 
stripes  curve  more  proudly  on  the  fawning 
breeze  than  when  it  floats  above  the  school-house, 
over  the  daily  battle  against  ignorance  and  pre 
judice  (which  is  ignorance  of  our  fellows),  for 
freedom  and  for  equal  rights.  It  is  no  mere  pretty 
sentimentality  that  puts  the  flag  there,  but  the  se 
rious  recognition  of  the  bed-rock  principle  of  our 
Union :  That  we  are  all  of  one  blood,  one  bound- 
en  duty;  that  all  these  anti-social  prejudices  are 
just  as  shameful  as  illiteracy,  and  that  they  must 
disappear  as  soon  as  ever  we  shall  come  to  know 
each  other  well.  Knowledge  is  power.  That  is 
true.  And  it  is  also  true :  A  house  divided  against 
itself  cannot  stand. 


8  BACK  HOME 

"The  Flag  of  our  Union  forever!"  is  our 
prayer,  our  heart's  desire  for  us  and  for  our 
children  after  us.  Heroes  have  died  to  give  us 
that,  heroes  that  with  glazing  eyes  beheld  the 
tattered  ensign  and  spent  their  latest  breath  to 
cheer  it  as  it  passed  on  to  triumph.  "We  who  are 
about  to  die  salute  thee!"  The  heart  swells  to 
think  of  it.  But  it  swells,  too,  to  think  that,  day 
by  day,  thousands  upon  thousands  of  little  chil 
dren  stretch  out  their  hands  toward  that  Flag  and 
pledge  allegiance  to  it.  "We  who  are  about  to 
LIVE  salute  thee!" 

It  is  no  mere  chance  affair  that  all  our  federal 
buildings  should  be  so  ugly  and  so  begrudged, 
and  that  our  school-houses  should  be  so  beau 
tiful  architecturally  —  the  one  nearest  my  house 
is  built  from  plans  that  took  the  first  prize  at  the 
Paris  Exposition,  in  competition  with  the  whole 
world  —  so  well-appointed,  and  so  far  from 
being  grudged  that  the  complaint  is,  that  there 
are  not  enough  of  them. 

That  So-and-so  should  be  the  President,  and 
such-and-such  a  party  have  control  is  but  a 
game  we  play  at,  amateurs  and  professionals; 
the  serious  business  is,  that  in  this  country 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  9 

no  child,  how  poor  soever  it  may  be,  shall 
have  the  slightest  let  or  hindrance  in  the 
equal  chance  with  every  other  child  to  learn 
to  read,  and  write,  and  cipher,  and  do  raffia- 
work. 

It  is  a  new  thing  with  us  to  have  splendid 
school-houses.  After  all,  the  norm,  as  you  might 
say,  is  still  'The  Old  Red  School-house."  You 
must  recollect  how  hard  the  struggle  is  for  the 
poor  farmer,  with  wheat  only  a  dollar  a  bushel, 
and  eggs  only  six  for  a  quarter;  with  every  year 
or  so  taxes  of  three  and  sometimes  four  dollars 
on  an  eighty-acre  farm  grinding  him  to  earth.  It 
were  folly  to  expect  more  in  rural  districts  than  a 
tight  box,  with  benches  and  a  stove  in  it.  Never 
theless,  it  is  the  thing  signified  more  than  its 
outward  seeming  that  catches  and  holds  the  eye 
upon  the  country  school-house  as  you  drive  past 
it.  You  count  yourself  fortunate  if,  mingled  with 
the  creaking  of  the  buggy-springs,  you  hear  the 
hum  of  recitation;  yet  more  fortunate  if  it  is  re 
cess  time,  and  you  can  see  the  children  out  at 
play,  the  little  girls  holding  to  one  another's 
dress  -  tails  as  they  solemnly  circle  to  the 
chant: 


io  BACK  HOME 

"  H-yar  way  gow  rand  tba  malbarry  bosh, 
Tba  malbarry  bosh,  tha  malbarry  bosht 
H-yar  way  gow  rand  tba  malbarry  bosb 
On  a  cay-um  and  frasty  marneng." 

The  boys  are  at  marbles,  if  it  is  muddy 
enough,  or  one-old-cat,  or  pom-pom-peel-away, 
with  the  normal  percentage  of  them  in  reboant 
tears  —  that  is  to  say,  one  in  three. 

But  even  this  is  not  the  moment  of  illumina 
tion,  when  it  comes  upon  you  like  a  flood  how 
glorious  is  the  land  we  live  in,  upon  what  sure 
and  certain  footing  are  its  institutions,  when  we 
know  by  spiritual  insight  that  whatsoever  be  the 
trial  that  awaits  us,  the  people  of  these  United 
States,  we  shall  be  able  for  it!  Yes.  We  shall  be 
able  for  it. 

If  you  would  learn  the  secret  of  our  nation's 
greatness,  take  your  stand  some  winter's  mor 
ning  just  before  nine  o'clock,  where  you  can  over 
look  a  circle  of  some  two  or  three  miles'  radius, 
the  center  being  the  Old  Red  School-house.  You 
will  see  little  figures  picking  their  way  along  the 
miry  roads,  or  ploughing  through  the  deep  drifts, 
cutting  across  the  fields,  all  drawing  to  the 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  11 

school-house,  Bub  in  his  wammus  and  his  cow 
hide  boots,  his  cap  with  ear-laps,  a  knitted  com 
forter  about  his  neck,  and  his  hands  glowing  in 
scarlet  mittens;  and  little  Sis,  in  a  thick  shawl, 
trudging  along  behind  him,  stepping  in  his  tracks. 
They  chirrup,  "Good-morning,  sir!"  As  far  as 
you  can  see  them  you  have  to  watch  them,  and 
something  rises  in  your  throat.  Lord  love  'em! 
Lord  love  the  children! 

And  then  it  comes  to  you,  and  it  makes  you 
catch  your  breath  to  think  of  it,  that  every  two  or 
three  miles  all  over  this  land,  wherever  there  are 
children  at  all,  there  is  the  Old  Red  School- 
house.  At  this  very  hour  a  living  tide,  upbearing 
the  hopes  and  prayers  of  God  alone  knows  how 
many  loving  hearts,  the  tide  on  which  all  of  our 
longed-for  ships  are  to  come  in,  is  setting  to  the 
school-house.  Oh,  what  is  martial  glory,  what  is 
conquest  of  an  empire,  what  is  state-craft  along 
side  of  this  ?  Happy  is  the  people  that  is  in  such  a 
case! 

The  city  schools  are  now  the  pattern  for  the 
country  schools :  but  in  my  day,  although  a  little 
they  were  pouring  the  new  wine  of  frothing  edu 
cational  reform  into  the  old  bottles,  they  had  not 


12  BACK  HOME 

quite  attained  the  full  distention  of  this  present. 
We  still  had  some  kind  of  a  good  time,  but  noth 
ing  like  the  good  times  they  had  out  at  the 
school  near  grandpapas,  where  I  sometimes  vis 
ited.  There  you  could  whisper!  Yes,  sir,  you 
could  whisper.  So  long  as  you  did  n't  talk  out 
loud,  it  was  all  right.  And  there  was  no  rising  at 
the  tap  of  the  bell,  forming  in  line  and  walking  in 
lock-step.  Seemingly  it  never  entered  the  school- 
board's  heads  that  anybody  would  ever  be  sent  to 
state's  prison.  They  left  the  scholars  unprepared 
for  any  such  career.  They  have  remedied  all  that 
in  city  schools.  Now,  when  a  boy  grows  up  and 
goes  to  Sing  Sing,  he  knows  exactly  what  to  do 
and  how  to  behave.  It  all  comes  back  to  him. 

But  what  I  call  the  finest  part  of  going  to 
school  in  the  country  was,  that  you  did  n't  go 
home  to  dinner.  Grandma  had  a  boy  only  a  few 
years  older  than  I  was,  and  when  I  went  a- 
visiting,  she  fixed  us  up  a  "piece."  They  call  it 
"luncheon"  now,  I  think  —  a  foolish,  hybrid 
mongrel  of  a  word,  made  up  of  "lump,"  a  piece 
of  bread,  and  "noon,"  and  "shenk,"  a  pouring 
or  drink.  But  the  right  name  is  "piece."  What 
made  this  particular  "piece"  taste  so  wonder- 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  13 

fully  good  was  that  it  was  in  a  round-bottomed 
basket  woven  of  splints  dyed  blue,  and  black  and 
red,  and  all  in  such  a  funny  pattern.  It  was  an 
Indian  basket.  My  grandma's  mother,  when  she 
was  a  little  girl,  got  that  from  the  squaw  of  old 
Chief  Wiping-Stick. 

The  "piece"  had  bread-and-butter  (my 
grandma  used  to  let  me  churn  for  her  sometimes, 
when  I  went  out  there),  and  some  of  the  slices 
had  apple-butter  on  them.  (One  time  she  let  me 
stir  the  cider,  when  it  was  boiling  down  in  the  big 
kettle  over  the  chunk-fire  out  in  the  yard.  The 
smoke  got  in  my  eyes.)  Sometimes  there 
was  honey  from  the  hives  over  by  the  goose 
berry  bushes — the  gooseberries  had  stickers  on 
them  —  and  we  had  slices  of  cold,  fried  ham.  (I 
was  out  at  grandpap's  one  time  when  they  but 
chered.  They  had  a  chunk-fire  then,  too,  to  heat 
the  water  to  scald  the  hogs.  And  say!  Did  your 
grandma  ever  roast  pig's  tails  in  the  ashes  for 
you  ?)  And  there  were  crullers.  No,  I  don't  mean 
"doughnuts."  I  mean  crullers,  all  twisted  up. 
They  go  good  with  cider.  (Sometimes  my  grand 
ma  cut  out  thin,  pallid  little  men  of  cruller- 
dough,  and  dropped  them  into  the  hot  lard  for 


i4  BACK   HOME 

my  Uncle  Jimmy  and  me.  And  when  she  fished 
them  out,  they  were  all  swelled  up  and  "pussy," 
and  golden  brown. 

And  there  was  pie.  Neither  at  the  school  noon 
ing  nor  at  the  tabk  did  one  put  a  piece  of  pie  upon 
a  plate  and  haggle  at  it  with  a  fork.  You  took  the 
piece  of  pie  up  in  your  hand  and  pointed  the 
sharp  end  toward  you,  and  gently  crowded  it  into 
your  face.  It  did  n't  require  much  pressure 
either. 

And  there  were  always  apples,  real  apples.  I 
think  they  must  make  apples  in  factories  nowa 
days.  They  taste  like  it.  These  were  real  ones, 
picked  off  the  trees.  Out  at  grandpap's  they  had 
bellflowers,  and  winesaps,  and  seek-no-furthers, 
and,  I  think,  sheep-noses,  and  one  kind  of  apple 
that  I  can't  find  any  more,  though  I  have  sought 
it  carefully.  It  was  the  finest  apple  I  ever  set  a 
tooth  in.  It  was  the  juiciest  and  the  spiciest  apple. 
It  had  sort  of  a  rollicking  flavor  to  it,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean.  It  certainly  was  the  ne  plus  ultra  of 
an  apple.  And  the  name  of  it  was  the  rambo. 
Dear  me,  how  good  it  was!  I  think  I  'd  sooner 
have  one  right  now  than  great  riches.  And  all 
these  apples  they  kept  in  the  apple-hole.  You 


''/S*rt\3LL!*J&-.  '       xfT-  '  m  • 


"  ^tbe  smoke  got  in    my  eyes 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  15 

went  out  and  uncovered  the  earth  and  there  they 
were,  all  in  a  big  nest  of  straw;  and  such  a  gush 
of  perfume  distilled  from  that  pile  of  them  that 
just  to  recollect  it  makes  my  mouth  all  wet. 

They  had  a  big  red  apple  in  those  days  that  I 
forget  the  name  of.  Oh,  it  was  a  whopper!  You  'd 
nibble  at  it  and  nibble  at  it  before  you  could  get  a 
purchase  on  it.  Then,  after  you  got  your  teeth  in, 
you  Jd  pull  and  pull,  and  all  of  a  sudden  the 
apple  would  go  "  tock!"  and  your  head  would  fly 
back  from  the  recoil,  and  you  had  a  bite  about 
the  size  of  your  hand.  You  "chomped"  on  it, 
with  your  cheek  all  bulged  out,  and  blame  near 
drowned  yourself  with  the  juice  of  it. 

Noon-time  the  girls  used  to  count  the  seeds: 

"  One  I  love,  two  I  love,  three  my  love  I  see; 

Four  I  love  with  all  my  heart,  and  five  I  cast  away. 

Stx  he  loves;  seven  she  loves;  eight  .   .   .   eight    .     .   ' 

I  forget  what  eight  is,  and  all  that  follows  after. 
And  then  the  others  would  tease  her  with,  "Aw, 
Jennie!"  knowing  who  it  was  she  had  named  the 
apple  for,  Wes.  Rinehart,  or  'Lonzo  Curl,  or 
whoever.  And  you  Jd  be  standing  there  by  the 


16  BACK  HOME 

stove,  kind  of  grinning  and  not  thinking  of  any 
thing  in  particular  when  somebody  would  hit  you 
a  clout  on  your  back  that  just  about  broke  you  in 
two,  and  would  tell  you  "to  pass  it  on,"  and 
you  'd  pass  it  on,  and  the  next  thing  was  you  'd 
think  the  house  was  coming  down.  Such  a  chas 
ing  around  and  over  benches,  and  upsetting  the 
water-bucket,  and  tearing  up  Jack  generally  that 
teacher  would  say, "  Boys !  boys !  If  you  can't  play 
quietly,  you  '11  have  to  go  out  of  doors!"  Play 
quietly!  Why,  the  idea!  What  kind  of  play  is  it 
when  you  are  right  still  ? 

Outdoors  in  the  country,  you  can  whoop  and 
holler,  and  carry  on,  and  nobody  complains  to 
the  board  of  health.  And  there  are  so  many  things 
you  can  do.  If  there  is  just  the  least  little  fall 
of  snow  you  can  make  a  big  wheel,  with  spokes 
in  it,  by  your  tracking.  I  remember  that  it  was 
called  "fox  and  geese,"  but  that 's  all  I  can  re 
member  about  it  Jf  there  was  a  little  more  snow 
you  tried  to  wash  the  girls'  faces  in  it,  and  some 
times  got  yours  washed.  If  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  wet  snow  you  had  a  snowball  fight,  which 
is  great  fun,  unless  you  get  one  right  smack  dab 
in  your  ear  —  oh,  but  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  all 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  17 

the  fun  there  is  at  the  noon  hour  in  the  country 
school,  that  the  town  children  don't  know  any 
thing  about.  And  when  it  was  time  for  school  to 
"take  up,"  there  was  n't  any  forming  in  line, 
with  a  monitor  to  run  tell  teacher  who  snatched 
off  Joseph  Humphreys'  cap  and  flung  it  far  away, 
so  he  had  to  get  out  of  the  line,  and  who  did  this, 
and  who  did  that  —  no  penitentiary  business  at 
all.  Teacher  tapped  on  the  window  with  a  ruler, 
and  the  boys  and  girls  came  in,  red-faced  and 
puffing,  careering  through  the  aisles,  knocking 
things  off  the  desks  with  many  a  burlesque,  "oh, 
exCUSE  me!"  and  falling  into  their  seats,  burst 
ing  into  sniggers,  they  did  n't  know  what  at.They 
had  an  hour  and  a  half  nooning.  Counting  that  it 
took  five  minutes  to  shovel  down  even  grandma's 
beautiful  "piece,"  that  left  an  hour  and  twenty- 
five  minutes  for  roaring,  romping  play.  If  you 
want  to  know,  I  think  that  is  fully  as  educational 
and  a  far  better  preparation  for  life  than  sitting 
still  with  your  nose  stuck  in  a  book. 

In  the  city  schools  they  don't  think  so.  Even 
the  stingy  fifteen  minutes'  recess,  morning  and 
afternoon,  has  been  stolen  from  the  children. 
Instead  is  given  the  inspiriting  physical  culture, 


<8  BACK  HOME 

all  making  silly  motions  together  in  a  nice,  warm 
room,  full  of  second-hand  air.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  one  in  every  three  that  die  between  fifteen 
and  twenty-five,  dies  of  consumption  ? 

You  must  have  noticed  that  almost  everybody 
that  amounts  to  anything  spent  his  early  life  in 
the  country.  The  city  schools  have  great  educa 
tional  advantages;  they  have  all  the  up-to-date 
methods,  but  the  output  of  the  Old  Red  School- 
house  compares  very  favorably  with  that  of  the 
city  schools  for  all  that.  The  two-mile  walk,  mor 
ning  and  evening, had  something  to  do  with  it,  not 
only  because  it  and  the  long  nooning  were  good 
exercise,  but  because  it  impressed  upon  the  mind 
that  what  cost  so  much  effort  to  get  must  surely 
be  worth  having.  But  I  think  I  know  another 
reason. 

If  the  city  child  goes  through  the  arithmetic 
once,  it  is  as  much  as  ever.  In  the  Old  Red 
School-house  those  who  had  n't  gone  through 
the  arithmetic  at  least  six  times,  were  little 
thought  of.  In  town,  the  last  subject  in  the  book 
was  "  Permutation,"  to  which  you  gave  the  mere 
look  its  essentially  frivolous  nature  deserved.  It 
was:  "End  of  the  line.  All  outl"  But  in  the  coun- 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  19 

try  a  very  important  department  followed.  It 
was  called  "  Problems. "  They  were  twisters,  able 
to  make  "How  old  is  Ann?"  look  like  a  last 
year's  bird's  nest.  They  make  a  big  fuss  about 
the  psychology  of  the  child's  mind  nowadays. 
Well,  I  tell  you  they  could  n't  teach  the  man  that 
got  up  that  arithmetic  a  thing  about  the  opera 
tion  of  the  child's  mind  He  knew  what  was 
what.  He  did  nt  put  down  the  answers.  He  knew 
that  if  he  did,  weak,  erring  human  nature,  tor 
tured  by  suspense,  determined  to  have  the  agony 
over,  would  multiply  by  four  and  divide  by 
thirteen,  and  subtract  127  —  did  n't,  either.  I 
did  n't  say  "substract."  I  guess  I  know  — 
they  'd  get  the  answer  somehow,  it  did  n't 
matter  much  how. 

In  the  country  they  ciphered  through  this  part, 
and  handed  in  their  sums  to  Teacher,  who  said 
she  'd  take  'em  home  and  look  'em  over;  she 
did  n't  have  time  just  then.  As  if  that  fooled  any 
body!  She  had  a  key!  And  when  you  had  done 
the  very  last  one  on  the  very  last  page,  and  there 
was  n't  anything  more  except  the  blank  pages, 
where  you  had  written,  "Joe  Geiger  loves  Molly 
Meyers,"  and,"  If  my  name  you  wish  to  see,  look 


20  BACK  HOME 

on  page  103,"  and  all  such  stuff,  then  you  turned 
over  to  the  beginning,  where  it  says,  "Arithme 
tic  is  the  science  of  numbers,  and  the  art  of  com 
puting  by  them/'  and  once  more  considered, 
"Ann  had  four  apples  and  her  brother  gave  her 
two  more.  How  many  did  she  then  have  ? "  There 
were  the  four  apples  in  a  row,  and  the  two  apples, 
and  you  that  had  worried  over  meadows  so  long 
and  so  wide,  and  men  mowing  them  in  so  many 
days  and  a  half,  had  to  think  how  many  apples 
Ann  really  did  have.  Some  of  the  fellows  with 
forked  hairs  on  their  chins  and  uncertain  voices 
—  the  big  fellows  in  the  back  seats,  where  the 
apple-cores  and  the  spit-balls  come  from  — 
knew  every  example  in  the  book  by  heart. 

And  there  is  yet  another  reason  why  the  coun 
try  school  has  brought  forth  men  of  whom  we  do 
well  to  be  proud.  At  the  county-seat,  every  so 
often,  the  school  commissioners  held  an  exam 
ination.  Thither  resorted  many,  for  the  most 
part  anxious  to  determine  if  they  really  knew  as 
much  as  they  thought  they  did.  If  you  took  that 
examination  and  got  a  "stiff-kit"  for  eighteen 
months,  you  had  good  cause  to  hold  your  head 
up  and  step  as  high  as  a  blind  horse.  A  "stiff- 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  21 

kit"  for  eighteen  months  is  no  small  thing,  let  me 
tell  you.  I  don't  know  if  there  is  anything  corres 
ponding  to  a  doctor's  hood  for  such  as  win  a  cer 
tificate  to  teach  school  for  two  years  hand-run 
ning;  but  there  ought  to  be.  A  fellow  ought  not  to 
be  obliged  to  resort  to  such  tactics  as  taking  out 
a  folded  paper  and  perusing  it  in  the  hope  that 
some  one  will  ask  him:  "What  you  got  there, 
Calvin  ? "  so  as  to  give  you  a  chance  to  say,  care 
lessly,  "Oh,  jist  a  'stiff-kit'  for  two  years." 

(When  you  get  as  far  along  as  that,  you  simply 
have  to  take  a  term  in  the  Junior  Prep.  Depart 
ment  at  college,  not  because  there  is  anything  left 
for  you  to  learn,  but  for  the  sake  of  putting  a 
gloss  on  your  education,  finishing  it  off  neatly.) 

And  then  if  you  were  going  to  read  law  with 
Mr.  Parker,  or  study  medicine  with  old  Doc. 
Harbaugh,  and  you  kind  of  run  out  of  clothes, 
you  took  that  certificate  and  hunted  up  a  school 
and  taught  it.  Sometimes  they  paid  you  as  high 
as  $20  a  month  and  board,  lots  of  board,  real 
buckwheat  cakes  ("riz"  buckwheat,  not  the  pre 
pared  kind),  and  real  maple  syrup,  and  real 
sausage,  the  kind  that  has  sage  in  it;  the  kind 
that  you  can't  coax  your  butcher  to  sell  you  The 


22  BACK  HOME 

pale,  tasteless  stuff  he  gives  you  for  sausage  I 
would  n't  throw  out  to  the  chickens.  Twenty  dol 
lars  a  month  and  board!  That's  $4  a  month  more 
than  a  hired  man  gets. 

But  it  was  n't  alone  the  demonstration  that, 
strange  as  it  might  seem,  it  was  possible  for  a 
man  to  get  his  living  by  his  wits  (though  that  has 
done  much  to  produce  great  men)  as  it  was  the 
actual  exercise  of  teaching.  Remember  the  big 
boys  on  the  back  seats,  where  the  apple-cores 
and  the  spit-balls  come  from.  The  school-director 
that  hired  you  gave  you  a  searchinglook-over  and 
said:  " M-well-1-1,  I'm  afraid  you  haint  hardly 
qualified  for  our  school  —  oh,  that 's  all  right, 
sir;  that 's  all  right.  Your  'stiff-kit'  is  first-rate, 
and  you  got  good  recommends,  good  recom 
mends;  but  I  was  thinkin' — well,  I  tell  you. 
Might 's  well  out  with  it  first  as  last.  I  d'  know 's 
I  ort  to  say  so,  but  this  here  district  No.  34  is  a 
poot'  tol'able  hard  school  to  teach.  Ya-uss.  A 
poot-ty  tol'able  hard  school  to  teach.  Now, 
that 's  jist  the  plumb  facts  in  the  matter.  We  Ve 
had  four  try  it  this  winter  a'ready.  One  of  'em 
stuck  it  out  four  weeks  —  I  jimminy!  he  had 
grit,  that  feller  had.  The  balance  of  'em  did  n't 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  23 

take  so  long  to  make  up  their  minds.  Well,  now, 
if  you  're  a  mind  to  try  it  —  I  was  goin'  to  say  you 
did  n't  look  to  me  like  you  had  the  heft.  .  .  . 
Like  to  have  you  the  worst  way.  Now,  if  you 
want  to  back  out.  .  .  .  Well,  all  right. 
Monday  mornin',  eh  ?  Well,  you  got  my  sym 
pathies." 

I  believe  that  some  have  tried  to  figure  out 
that  St.  Martin  of  Tours,  ought  to  be  the  patron 
saint  of  the  United  States.  One  of  his  feast-days 
falls  on  July  4,  and  his  colors  are  red,  white  and 
blue.  But  I  rather  prefer,  myself,  the  Boanerges, 
the  two  sons  of  Zebedee.  When  asked:  "Are  ye 
able  to  drink  of  this  cup  ? "  they  answered :  "  We 
are  able. "  They  did  n't  in  the  least  know  what  it 
was;  but  they  knew  they  were  able  for  anything 
that  anybody  else  was,  and,  perhaps,  able  for  a 
little  more.  At  any  rate,  they  were  willing  to 
chance  it.  That 's  the  United  States  of  America, 
clear  to  the  bone  and  back  again  to  the  skin. 

You  ask  any  really  great  man :  "  Have  you  ever 
taught  a  winter  term  in  a  country  school  ?"  If  he 
says  he  has  n't,  then  depend  upon  it  he  is  n't  a 
really  great  man.  People  only  think  he  is.  The 
winter  term  breeds  Boanerges  —  sons  of  thun- 


24  BACK  HOME 

der.  Yes,  and  of  lightning,  too.  Something  struck 
the  big  boys  in  the  back  seats,  as  sure  as  you  're  a 
foot  high;  and  if  it  was  n't  lightning,  what  was 
it  ?  Brute  strength  for  brute  strength,  they  were 
more  than  a  match  for  Teacher.  It  was  up  to  him. 
It  was  either  prove  himself  the  superior  power, 
or  slink  off  home  and  crawl  under  the  porch. 

The  curriculum  of  the  Old  Red  School-house, 
which  was,  until  lately,  the  universal  curriculum, 
consisted  in  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic  or 
ciphering.  I  like  the  word  "ciphering,"  because 
it  makes  me  think  of  slates  —  slates  that  were 
always  falling  on  the  floor  with  a  rousing  clatter, 
so  that  almost  always  at  least  one  corner  was 
cracked.  Some  mitigation  of  the  noise  was  gain 
ed  by  binding  the  frame  with  strips  of  red  flan 
nel,  thus  adding  warmth  and  brightness  to  the 
color  scheme.  Just  as  some  fertile  brain  conceived 
the  notion  of  applying  a  knob  of  rubber  to  each 
corner,  slates  went  out,  and  I  suppose  only  doc 
tors  buy  them  nowadays  to  hang  on  the  doors  of 
their  offices.  Maybe  the  teacher's  nerves  were 
too  highly  strung  to  endure  the  squeaking  of 
gritty  pencils,  but  I  think  the  real  reason  for  their 
banishment  is,  that  slates  invited  too  strongly  the 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  25 

game  of  noughts  and  crosses,  or  tit-tat-toe,  three 
in  a  row,  the  champion  of  indoor  sports,  and  one 
entirely  inimical  to  the  study  of  the  joggerfy 
lesson.  But  if  slates  favored  tit-tat-toe,  they  also 
favored  ciphering,  and  nothing  but  good  can 
come  from  that.  Paper  is  now  so  cheap  that  you 
need  not  rub  out  mistakes,  but  paper  and  pencil 
can  never  surely  ground  one  in  "the  science  of 
numbers  and  the  art  of  computing  by  them." 
What  is  written  is  written,  and  returns  to  plague 
the  memory,  but  if  you  made  a  mistake  on  the 
slate,  you  could  spit  on  it  and  rub  it  out  with  your 
sleeve  and  leave  no  trace  of  the  error,  either  on 
the  writing  surface  or  the  tables  of  the  memory. 
What  does  the  hymn  say  ? 

"  Forget  the  steps  already  tro<?9 
And  onward  urge  thy  way." 

The  girls  used  to  keep  a  little  sponge  and  some 
water  in  a  discarded  patchouli  bottle  with  a  glass 
stopper,  to  wash  their  slates  with;  but  it  always 
seemed  to  me  that  the  human  and  whole-hearted 
way  was  otherwise. 

Reading,    writing,  and    arithmetic,  —  these 


26  BACK  HOME 

three;  and  the  greatest  of  these  three  is  arithme 
tic.  Over  against  it  stands  grammar,  which  may 
be  said  to  be  derived  from  reading  and  writing. 
Show  me  a  man  that,  as  a  boy  at  school,  excelled 
in  arithmetic  and  I  will  show  you  a  useful  citizen, 
a  boss  in  his  own  business,  a  leader  of  men;  show 
me  the  boy  that  preferred  grammar,  that  read 
expressively,  that  wrote  a  beautiful  hand  and 
curled  his  capital  S's  till  their  tails  looked  like 
mainsprings,  and  I  will  show  you  a  dreamer  and 
a  sentimentalist  —  a  man  that  works  for  other 
people.  While  I  have  breath  in  me,  I  will  main 
tain  the  supereminence  of  arithmetic.  There  is 
no  room  for  disputation  in  arithmetic,  no  excep 
tions  to  the  rule.  Twice  two  is  four,  and  that 's  all 
there  is  about  it :  but  whether  there  be  pronuncia 
tions,  they  shall  cease;  whether  there  be  rules  of 
grammar,  they  shall  vanish  away.  Why,  look 
here.  It 's  a  rule  of  grammar,  is  n't  it,  that  the 
subject  of  a  sentence  must  be  put  in  the  nomi 
native  case  ?  Let  it  kick  and  bite,  and  hang  on  to 
the  desks  all  it  wants  to,  in  it  goes  and  the  door 
is  slammed  on  it.  You  think  so  ?  What  is  the 
word  "you  ?"  Second  person,  plural  number,  ob 
jective  case.  Oh,  no;  the  nominative  form  is  "ye." 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  27 

Don't  you  remember  it  says:  "Woe  unto  you,  ye 
lawyers "  ?  Those  who  fight  against :  "  Him  and 
me  went  down  town, "  fight  against  the  stars  in 
their  courses,  for  the  objective  case  in  every  lan 
guage  is  bound  and  determined  to  be  The  Whole 
Thing.  Arithmetic  alone  is  founded  on  a  rock. 
All  else  is  fleeting,  all  else  is  futile,  chaotic  —  a 
waste  of  time.  What  is  reading  but  a  rival  of  mor 
phine  ?  There  are  probably  as  many  men  in 
prison,  sent  there  by  Reading,  as  by  Rum. 

"Oh,  not  good  Reading!"  says  the  publisher. 

"Not  good  Rum,  either,"  says  the  publican. 

Fight  it  out.  It  9s  an  even  thing  between  the 
two  of  you;  Literature  and  Liquor,  Books  and 
Booze,  which  can  take  a  man's  mind  off  his  busi 
ness  most  effectually. 

Still,  merely  as  a  matter  of  taste,  I  will  defend 
the  quality  of  McGuffey's  School  Readers  against 
all  comers.  I  don't  know  who  McGuffey  was;  but 
certainly  he  formed  the  greatest  intellects  of  our 
age,  present  company  not  excepted.  The  true 
test  of  literature  is  its  eternal  modernity.  A  thing 
of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever.  It  always  seems  of  the 
age  in  which  it  is  read.  Now,  almost  the  earliest 
lection  in  McGuffey's  First  Reader  goes  directly 


28  BACK  HOME 

to  the  heart  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern 
problems.  It  does  not  palter  or  beat  about  the 
bush.  It  asks  right  out,  plump  and  plain:  "Ann, 
how  old  are  you  ? " 

Year  by  year,  until  we  reached  the  dizzy  height 
of  the  Sixth  Reader,  were  presented  to  us  samples 
of  the  best  English  ever  written.  If  you  can  find, 
up  in  the  garret,  a  worn  and  frayed  old  Reader, 
take  it  down  and  turn  its  pages  over.  See  if  any 
thing  in  these  degenerate  days  compares  in  vital 
strength  and  beauty  with  the  story  of  the  boy 
that  climbed  the  Natural  Bridge,  carving  his 
steps  in  the  soft  limestone  with  his  pocket  knife. 
You  cannot  read  it  without  a  thrill.  The  same 
inspired  hand  wrote  "The  Blind  Preacher,"  and 
who  that  ever  can  read  it  can  forget  the  climax 
reached  in  that  sublime  line:  "Socrates  died  like 
a  philosopher,  but  Jesus  Christ  like  a  god!" 

Not  long  ago  I  walked  among  the  graves  in 
that  spot  opposite  where  Wall  Street  slants  away 
from  Broadway,  and  my  feet  trod  on  ground 
worth,  in  the  market,  more  than  the  twenty- 
dollar  gold  pieces  that  would  cover  it.  My  eye 
lighted  upon  a  flaking  brownstone  slab,  that  told 
me  Captain  Michael  Cresap  rested  there.  Cap- 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  29 

tain  Michael  Cresap!  The  intervening  years  all 
fled  away  before  me,  and  once  again  my  boyish 
heart  thrilled  with  that  incomparable  oration  in 
McGuffey's  Reader,  "Who  is  there  to  mourn  for 
Logan  ?  Not  one. "  Captain  Cresap  was  the  man 
that  led  the  massacre  of  Logan's  family. 

And  there  was  more  than  good  literature  in 
those  Readers.  There  was  one  piece  that  told 
about  a  little  boy  alone  upon  a  country  road  at 
night.  The  black  trees  groaned  and  waved  their 
skinny  arms  at  him.  The  wind-torn  clouds  fitfully 
let  a  pale  and  watery  moonlight  stream  a  little 
through.  It  was  very  lonely.  Over  his  shoulder 
the  boy  saw  indistinct  shapes  that  followed  after, 
and  hid  themselves  whenever  he  looked  squarely 
at  them.  Then,  suddenly,  he  saw  before  him  in 
the  gloom,  a  gaunt  white  specter  waiting  for  him 
—  waiting  to  get  him,  its  arms  spread  wide  out  in 
menace.  He  was  of  our  breed,  though,  this  boy. 
He  did  not  turn  and  run.  With  God  knows  what 
terror  knocking  at  his  ribs,  he  trudged  ahead  to 
meet  his  fate,  and  lo!  the  grisly  specter  proved  to 
be  a  friendly  guide-post  to  show  the  way  that  he 
should  walk  in.  Brother  (for  you  are  my  kin  that 
went  with  me  to  public  school),  in  the  life  that 


30  BACK  HOME 

you  have  lived  since  you  first  read  the  story  of 
Harry  and  the  Guide-post,  has  it  been  an  idle 
tale,  or  have  you,  too,  found  that  what  we  dread 
ed  most,  what  seemed  to  us  so  terrible  in  the  fu 
ture  has,  after  all,  been  a  friendly  guide-post, 
showing  us  the  way  that  we  should  walk  in  ? 

McGuffey  had  a  Speller,  too.  It  began  with 
simple  words  in  common  use,  like  a-b  ab,  and 
e-b  eb,  and  i-b,  ib,  proceeding  by  gradual,  if  not 
by  easy  stages  to  honorificatudinibility  and  dis- 
proportionableness,  with  a  department  at  the 
back  devoted  to  twisters  like  phthisic,  and  mul 
lein-stalk,  and  diphtheria,  and  gneiss.  We  used 
to  have  a  fine  old  sport  on  Friday  afternoons, 
called  "choose-up-and-spell-down."  I  don't 
know  if  you  ever  played  it.  It  was  a  survival,  pure 
and  simple,  from  the  Old  Red  School-house. 
There  was  where  it  really  lived.  There  was  where 
it  flourished  as  a  gladiatorial  spectacle.  The 
crack  spellers  of  District  Number  34  would  chal 
lenge  the  crack  spellers  of  the  Sinking  Spring 
School.  The  whole  countryside  came  to  the 
school-house  in  wagons  at  early  candle-lighting 
time,  and  watched  them  fight  it  out.  The  interest 
grew  as  the  contest  narrowed  down,  until  at  last 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  31 

there  were  the  two  captains  left  —  big  John  Rice 
for  District  Number  34,  and  that  wiry,  nervous, 
black-haired  girl  of  'Lias  Hoover's,  Polly  Ann. 
She  married  a  man  by  the  name  of  Brubaker.  I 
guess  you  did  n't  know  him.  His  folks  moved 
here  from  Clarke  County.  Polly  Ann's  eyes  glit 
tered  like  a  snake's,  and  she  kept  putting  her 
knuckles  up  to  the  red  spots  in  her  cheeks  that 
burned  like  fire.  Old  John,  he  did  n't  seem  to 
care  a  cent.  And  what  do  you  think  Polly  Ann 
missed  on  ?  "  Feoffment. "  A  simple  little  word 
like  "feoffment!"  She  had  n't  got  further  than 
"  pheph  —  "  when  she  knew  that  she  was  wrong, 
but  Teacher  had  said  "Next!"  and  big  John  took 
it  and  spelled  it  right.  She  had  a  fit  of  nervous 
crying,  and  some  were  for  giving  her  the  victory, 
after  all,  because  she  was  a  lady.  But  big  John 
said:  "She  missed,  didn't  she?  Well.  And  I 
spelled  it  right,  did  n't  I  ?  Well.  She  took  her 
chances  same  as  the  rest  of  us.  'Taint  me  you  got 
to  consider,  it 's  District  Number  34.  And  fur 
thermore.  And  furthermore.  Next  time  some- 
buddy  asts  her  to  go  home  with  him  from  singin'- 
school,  mebby  she  won't  snigger  right  in  his  face, 
and  say  'No!  's'  loud  'at  everybuddy  kin  hear  it." 


32  BACK  HOME 

It 's  quite  a  thing  to  be  a  good  speller,  but 
there  are  people  who  can  spell  any  word  that 
ever  was,  and  yet  if  you  should  ask  them  right 
quick  how  much  is  seven  times  eight,  they  'd 
hem  and  haw  and  say:  "Seven  turns  eight? 
Why-ah,  lemme  see  now.  Seven  turns  —  what 
was  it  you  said  ?  Oh,  seven  turns  eight.  Why-ah, 
seven  turns  eight  is  sixty-three  —  fifty-six  I 
mean. "  There  's  nothing  really  to  spelling.  It 's 
just  an  idiosyncrasy.  If  there  was  really  anything 
useful  in  it,  you  could  do  it  by  machinery  —  just 
the  same  as  you  can  add  by  machinery,  or  write 
with  a  typewriter,  or  play  the  piano  with  one  of 
these  things  with  cut  paper  in  it.  Spelling  is  an 
old-fashioned,  hand-powered  process,  and  as 
such  doomed  to  disappear  with  the  march  of  im 
provement. 

One  Friday  afternoon  we  chose  up  and  spelled 
down,  and  the  next  Friday  afternoon  we  spoke 
pieces.  Doubtless  this  accounts  for  our  being  a 
nation  of  orators.  I  am  far  from  implying  or 
seeming  to  imply  that  this  is  anything  to  brag  of. 
Anybody  that  can  be  influenced  by  a  man  with  a 
big  mouth,  a  loud  voice,  and  a  rush  of  words  to 
the  face  —  well,  I  've  got  my  opinion  of  all  such. 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  33 

Oratory  and  poetry  —  all  foolishness,  I  say. 
Better  far  are  drawing-lessons,  and  raffia-work, 
and  clay-modeling  than:  "I  come  not  here  to 
talk,"  and  "A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  at 
Algiers,"  and  "Old  Ironsides  at  anchor  lay." 
(I  observe  that  these  lines  are  more  or  less  famil 
iar  to  you,  and  that  you  are  eager  to  add  selec 
tions  to  the  list,  all  of  them  known  to  me  as  well 
as  you.)  That  children,  especially  boys,  loathe  to 
speak  a  piece  is  a  fact  profoundly  significant. 
They  know  it  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  foolish 
ness;  and  if  there  is  one  thing  above  another  that 
a  child  hates,  it  is  to  be  made  a  fool  in  public. 
That 's  what  makes  them  work  their  fingers  so, 
and  gulp,  and  stammer,  and  tremble  at  the  knees. 
That  is  what  sends  them  to  their  seats,  after  all 
is  over,  mad  as  hornets.  This  is  something  that  I 
know  about.  It  happened  that,  instead  of  getting 
funny  pieces  to  recite  as  I  wanted  to,  discerning 
that  one  silly  turn  deserves  another,  my  parents, 
well-meaning  in  their  way,  taught  me  solemn 
things  about:  "O  man  immortal,  live  for  some 
thing!"  and  all  such,  and  I  had  to  humiliate  my 
self  by  disgorging  them  in  public.  The  conse 
quence  was,  that  not  only  on  Friday  afternoons 


34  BACK  HOME 

but  whenever  anybody  came  to  visit  the  school, 
I  was  butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday. 
Teacher  was  so  proud  of  me,  and  the  visitors  let 
on  that  they  were  tickled  half  to  death,  but  I 
knew  better.  I  could  see  the  other  scholars  look 
at  one  another,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Well,  if 
you'll  tell  me  why!"  Even  in  my  shame  and  anger 
I  could  see  that.  But  there  is  one  happy  memory 
of  a  Friday  afternoon.  Determined  to  show  my 
friends  and  fellow-citizens  that  I,  too,  was  born 
in  Arcadia,  and  was  a  living,  human  boy,  I  an 
nounced  to  Teacher:  "I  got  another  piece." 

"Oh,  have  you  ?"  cried  she,  sure  of  an  extra 
O-man-immortal  intellectual  treat.  "Let  us  hear 
it,  by  all  means." 

Whereupon  I  marched  up  to  the  platform  and 
declaimed  that  deathless  lyric: 

ttWben  I  was  a  boy,  I  was  a  bold  one. 
My  mammy  made  me  a  new  shirt  out  o*  dad9s  old  one.'9 

All  of  it  ?  Certainly.  Is  n't  that  enough  ?  That 
was  the  only  distinctly  popular  platform  effort  I 
ever  made.  I  am  proud  of  it  now.  I  was  proud  of 
it  then.  But  the  news  of  my  triumph  was  coldly 
received  at  home. 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  35 

I  don't  know  whether  it  has  since  gone  out  of 
date,  but  in  my  day  and  time  a  very  telling  fea 
ture  of  school  exhibitions  was  reading  in  concert. 
The  room  was  packed  as  full  of  everybody's  ma 
as  it  could  be,  and  yet  not  mash  the  children  out 
of  shape,  and  a  whole  lot  of  young  ones  would 
read  a  piece  together.  Fine  ?  Finest  thing  you 
ever  heard.  I  remember  one  time  teacher  must 
have  calculated  a  leetle  mite  too  close,  or  else  one 
girl  more  was  in  the  class  than  she  had  reckoned 
on;  but  on  the  day,  the  two  end  girls  just  man 
aged  to  stand  upon  the  platform  and  that  was  all. 
They  recited  together: 

"  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 
And  Belgium's  capital     .     .     .     .     " 

I  forget  the  rest  of  it.  Well,  anyhow,  they  were 
supposed  to  make  gestures  all  together.  Teacher 
had  rehearsed  the  gestures,  and  they  all  did  it 
simultaneously,  just  as  if  they  had  been  wound 
up  with  a  spring.  But,  as  I  said,  the  two  end  girls 
had  all  they  could  do  to  keep  on  the  platform, 
and  it  takes  elbow  room  for:  "'T  is  but  the  car 
rattling  over  the  stony  street, "  and  one  girl  — 
well,  she  said  she  stepped  off  on  purpose,  but  I 


36  BACK  HOME 

did  n't  believe  her  then  and  I  don't  now.  We  had 
our  laugh  about  it,  whichever  way  it  was. 

We  had  our  laugh.  .  .  .  Ah,  life  was  all 
laughter  then.  That  was  before  care  came  to  be 
the  shadow  at  our  heel.  That  was  before  black 
Sorrow  met  us  in  the  way,  and  would  not  let  us 
pass  unless  we  gave  to  her  our  dearest  treasure. 
That  was  before  we  learned  that  what  we  covet 
most  is,  when  we  get  it,  but  a  poor  thing  after  all, 
that  whatsoever  chalice  Fortune  presses  to  our 
lips,  a  tear  is  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup.  In  those 
happy  days  gone  by  if  the  rain  fell,  't  was  only  for 
a  little  while,  and  presently  the  sky  was  bright 
again,  and  the  birds  whistled  merrily  among  the 
wet  and  shining  leaves.  Now  "the  clouds  return 
after  the  rain. " 

It  can  never  be  with  us  again  as  once  it  was. 
For  us  the  bell  upon  the  Old  Red  School-house 
calls  in  vain.  We  heed  it  not,  we  that  hearkened 
for  it  years  ago.  The  living  tide  of  youth  flows 
toward  the  school-house,  and  we  are  not  of  it. 
Never  again  shall  we  sit  at  those  old  desks, 
whittled  and  carved  with  rude  initials,  and  snap 
our  fingers,  eager  to  tell  the  answer.  Never  again 
shall  we  experience  the  thrill  of  pride  when 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE  37 

teacher  praised  us  openly.  Never  again  shall  we 
sit  trembling  while  the  principal  read  the  note, 
and  then  scowled  at  us  fiercely  with:  "Take  off 
your  coat,  sir!"  Ah,  me!  Never  again,  never 
again. 

Well,  who  wants  it  to  be  that  way  again  ? 
We  're  men  and  women  now.  We  Ve  duties  and 
responsibilities.  Who  wants  to  be  a  child  again  ? 
Not  I.  Let  me  stick  just  at  my  present  age  for 
about  a  hundred  years,  and  I  '11  never  utter  a 
word  of  complaint. 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL 

"  We-e  love  the  Sunday-school. 
We-e  love  the  Sunday-school. 
(Girls)  — So  do  I. 
(Boys)  —  So  do  I. 
(School) — We  all  love  the  Sunday-school." 

"  SPARKLING  DEWDROPS." 

SOME  people  believe  that  when  General 
Conference  assigned  them  to  the  Commit 
tee  on  Hymn-Book  Revision,  power  and 
authority  were  given  unto  them  to  put  a  half- 
sole  and  a  new  heel  on  any  and  all  poetry  that 
might  look  to  them  to  be  a  little  run  over  on  one 
side.  If  they  felt  as  I  do  about  the  lines  that  head 
this  article  they  would  have  "Sunday"  scratched 
out  and  "Sabbath"  written  in  before  you  could 
bat  an  eye.  The  mere  substitution  of  one  word 
for  another  may  seem  a  light  matter  to  a  man 

that  has  never  composed  anything  more  literary 

38 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  39 

than  an  obituary  for  the  Western  Advocate  of  Sis 
ter  Jane  Malinda  Sprague,  who  was  born  in 
Westmoreland  County,  Pennsylvania,  in  1816, 
removed  with  her  parents  at  a  tender  age  to  New 
Sardis,  Washington  County,  Ohio,  where,  etc., 
etc.  If  he  wanted  to  extract  a  word  he  would  do 
it,  and  never  even  offer  to  give  the  author  gas. 
But  I  know  just  how  it  hurts.  I  know  or  can  im 
agine  how  the  gifted  poet  that  penned  the  death 
less  lines  I  have  quoted  must  have  walked  the 
floor  in  an  agony  until  every  word  and  syllable 
was  just  to  suit  him,  and  so,  though  I  feel  sure 
he  meant  to  write  "  Sabbath-school,"  I  don't  dare 
change  it. 

To  most  persons  one  word  seems  about  as 
good  as  another,  Sunday  or  Sabbath,  but  when 
there  are  young  people  about  the  house  you  learn 
to  be  careful  how  you  talk  before  them.  Now,  I 
would  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  "Sunday"  is 
what  you  might  call  exactly  rowdy,  but  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  but  ...  er  ...  Let  me  illustrate. 

If  a  man  says,  "It's  a  beautiful  Sunday 
morning,"  like  enough  he  has  on  red-and-green 
stockings,  baggy  knickerbockers,  a  violet-and- 
purple  sweater,  a  cap  shaped  like  a  milk-roll, 


40  BACK  HOME 

and  is  smoking  a  pipe.  He  very  likely  carries  a 
bagful  of  golf-sticks,  or  is  pumping  up  his  bicy 
cle.  But  if  a  man  says,  "This  beautiful  Sabbath 
morn,"  you  know  for  a  certainty  that  he  wears  a 
long-tailed  black  coat,  a  boiled  shirt,  and  a  white 
tie.  He  is  bald  from  his  forehead  upward,  his  up 
per  lip  is  shaven,  and  his  views  and  those  of  the 
late  Robert  Reed  on  the  disgusting  habit  of  using 
tobacco  are  absolutely  at  one. 

Not  alone  a  regard  for  respectability,  but  the 
hankering  to  be  historically  accurate,  urges  me 
to  make  the  change  I  speak  of.  Originally  the  in 
stitution  was  a  Sunday-school,  and  not  very  re 
spectable  either.  I  should  hate  to  think  any  of 
my  dear  young  friends  were  in  the  habit  of  at 
tending  such  a  low-class  affair  as  Robert  Raikes 
conducted.  Sunday-schools  were  for  "little  raga 
muffins,"  as  he  called  them,  who  worked  such 
long  hours  on  week-days  (from  five  in  the  mor 
ning  until  nine  at  night)  that  if  they  were  to  learn 
the  common  branches  at  all  it  had  to  be  on  a 
Sunday.  A  ragged  school  was  bad  enough  in  it 
self,  putting  foolish  notions  into  the  heads  of 
gutter-brats  and  making  them  discontented  and 
unhappy  in  their  lot;  but  to  teach  a  ragged 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  41 

school  on  Sunday  was  a  little  too  much.  So  Rob 
ert  Raikes  encountered  the  most  violent  opposi 
tion,  though  from  that  beginning  dates  popular 
education  in  England. 

To  be  able  to  read  is  no  longer  a  sign  that  Pa 
can  afford  to  do  without  the  young  ones'  wages 
on  a  Saturday  night,  and  can  even  pay  for  their 
schooling.  It  is  no  longer  a  mark  of  wealth  or 
even  of  hard-won  privilege,  but  the  common 
fate  of  all,  to  know  the  three  R's,  and  Sunday  is 
not  now  set  apart  for  secular  instruction.  So 
good  and  wholesome  an  institution  as  the  Sun 
day-school  was  not  permitted  to  perish,  but  was 
changed  to  suit  the  environment.  It  is  now  be 
come  the  Sabbath-school  for  the  study  of  the 
Bible,  a  Christian  recrudescence  of  the  syna 
gogue.  For  some  eighteen  centuries  it  was  sup 
posed  that  a  regularly  ordained  minister  should 
have  exclusive  charge  of  this  work.  At  rare  inter 
vals  nowadays  a  clergyman  may  be  found  to 
maintain  that  because  a  man  has  been  to  college 
and  to  the  theological  seminary,  and  has  made 
the  study  of  the  Scriptures  his  life-work  (moved 
to  that  decision  after  careful  self-examination) 
that  therefore  he  is  better  fitted  to  that  ministry 


42  BACK  HOME 

than  Miss  Susie  Goldrick,  who  teaches  a  class  in 
Sabbath-school  very  acceptably.  Miss  Goldrick 
is  in  the  second  year  in  the  High  School,  and  last 
Friday  afternoon  read  a  composition  on  English 
Literatoor,  in  which  she  spoke  in  terms  of  high 
praise  of  John  Bunion,  the  well-known  author 
of  "Progress  and  Poverty."  Miss  Goldrick  is 
very  conscientious,  and  always  keeps  her  thumb 
nail  against  the  questions  printed  on  the  lesson- 
leaf,  so  as  not  to  ask  twice,  "What  did  the  disci 
ples  then  do?" 

It  were  a  grave  error  to  suppose  that  no  secular 
learning  is  acquired  in  the  modern  Sabbath- 
school.  I  remember  once,  when  quite  young, 
speaking  to  my  teacher,  in  the  interval  between 
the  regular  class  work  and  the  closing  exercises, 
about  peacocks.  I  had  read  of  them,  but  had 
never  seen  one.  What  did  they  look  like  ?  She 
said  a  peacock  was  something  like  a  butterfly.  I 
have  always  remembered  that,  and  when  I  did 
finally  see  a  peacock,  I  was  interested  to  note  the 
essential  accuracy  of  the  description. 

Also,  one  day  a  new  lady  taught  our  class, 
Miss  Evans  having  gone  up  to  Marion  to  spend 
a  Sunday  with  her  brother,  who  kept  a  stove 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  43 

store  there,  and  this  new  lady  borrowed  two 
flower  vases  from  off  the  pulpit  and  a  piece  of 
string  from  Turkey-egg  McLaughlin  to  explain 
to  us  boys  how  the  earth  went  around  the  sun. 
We  had  too  much  manners  to  tell  her  that  we 
knew  that  years  and  years  ago  when  we  were  in 
Miss  Humphreys's  room.  I  don't  remember  what 
the  earth  going  around  the  sun  had  to  do  with 
the  lesson  for  the  day,  which  was  about  Samuel 
anointing  David's  head  with  oil  —  did  I  ever  tell 
you  how  I  anointed  my  own  head  with  coal  oil  ? 
—  but  I  do  remember  that  she  broke  both  the 
vases  and  cut  her  finger,  and  had  to  keep  sucking 
it  the  rest  of  the  time,  because  she  did  n't  want 
to  get  her  handkerchief  all  bloodied  up.  It  was  a 
kind  of  fancy  handkerchief,  made  of  thin  stuff 
trimmed  with  lace  —  no  good. 

The  Sabbath-school  may  be  said  to  be  divided 
into  three  courses,  namely,  the  preparatory  or 
infant-class,  the  collegiate  or  Sabbath-school 
proper,  and  the  post-graduate  or  Mr.  Parker's 
Bible-class. 

What  can  a  mere  babe  of  three  or  four  years 
learn  in  Sabbath-school  ?  sneers  the  critic.  Not 
much,  I  grant  you,  of  Justification  by  Faith,  or 


44  BACK   HOME 

Effectual  Calling;  but  certain  elementary  pre 
cepts  can  be  impressed  upon  the  mind  while  it  is 
still  in  a  plastic  condition  that  never  can  be 
wholly  obliterated,  come  what  may  in  after  life. 
Prime  among  these  elementary  precepts  is  this: 
"Always  bring  a  penny." 

Some  one  has  said,  "Give  me  the  first  seven 
years  of  a  child's  life  and  I  care  not  who  has  the 
remainder."  I  cannot  endorse  this  without  re 
serve;  but  I  maintain  as  a  demonstrated  fact: 
"Bring  up  a  child  to  contribute  a  copper  cent, 
and  when  he  is  old  he  will  not  depart  from  it."  It 
was  recently  my  high  privilege  to  attend  a  summer 
gathering  of  representative  religious  people  in  the 
largest  auditorium  in  this  country.  Sometimes 
under  that  far-spreading  roof  ten  thousand  souls 
were  assembled  and  met  together. This  fact  could 
be  guessed  at  with  tolerable  accuracy  from  the 
known  seating  capacity,  but  the  interesting  thing 
was  that  it  could  be  predicated  with  mathemati 
cal  certainty  that  exactly  ten  thousand  people 
were  present,  because  the  offertory  footed  up  ex 
actly  one  hundred  dollars.  What  an  encourage 
ment  to  these  faithful  infant-class  teachers  that 
have  labored  unremittingly,  instant  in  season 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  45 

and  out  of  season,  saying  over  and  over  again 
with  infinite  patience,  "Always  bring  a  penny," 
to  know  that  their  labor  has  not  been  in  vain, 
and  that  as  a  people  we  have  made  it  the  rule  of 
our  lives  always  to  bring  a  penny  —  and  no  more. 

I  have  often  tried  to  think  what  a  Sabbath- 
school  must  be  like  in  California,  where  they 
have  no  pennies.  It  seems  hardly  possible  that 
the  institution  can  exist  under  such  a  patent  dis 
ability,  and  yet  it  does,  Do  they  work  it  on  the 
same  principle  as  the  post-office  in  that  far-off 
land  where  you  cannot  buy  one  postal  card  be 
cause  the  postmaster  cannot  make  change,  but 
must  buy  five  postal  cards  or  two  two-cent 
stamps  and  a  postal  ?  In  other  words,  does  a 
nickel,  the  smallest  extant  coin,  serve  for  five  per 
sons  for  one  Sunday  or  one  person  for  five  Sun 
days  ?  I  have  often  wondered  about  this. 

Subsidiary  instruction  in  the  preparatory 
course  consists  of  sitting  right  still  and  being 
nice,  keeping  your  fingers  out  of  Johnny  Pym's 
eye,  because  it  hurts  him  and  makes  him  cry,  not 
grabbing  in  the  basket  when  it  goes  by,  even 
though  it  does  have  pennies  in  it,  coaching  in  a 
repertory  of  songs  like:  "Beautiful,  Beautiful 


46  BACK  HOME 

Little  Hands,"  "  You  in  Your  Little  Corner  and  I 
in  Mine,"  "The  Consecrated  Cross-Eyed  Bear," 
"Pass  Around  the  Wash-Rag"  —  the  grown 
folks  call  that  "Pass  Along  the  Watchword" 
and  stories  about  David  and  Goliath,  Samson 
and  the  three  hundred  foxes  with  fire  tied  to  their 
tails,  Moses  in  the  bulrushes,  the  infant  Samuel, 
Hagar  in  the  wilderness,  and  so  forth.  The  clergy 
have  often  objected  that  these  stories,  being  told 
at  the  same  period  of  life  with  those  about  Santa 
Claus,  "One  time  there  was  a  little  boy  and  he 
had  a  dog  named  Rover,"  the  little  girl  that  had 
hair  as  black  as  ebony,  skin  as  white  as  snow, 
and  cheeks  as  red  as  blood,  because  her  Ma,  who 
was  a  queen  by  occupation,  happened  to  cut  her 
finger  with  a  black-handled  knife  along  about 
New  Year's  —  the  clergy,  I  say,  have  often  ob 
jected  that  all  these  matters,  being  brought  to  a 
child's  attention  at  the  same  period  in  its  life, 
are  likely  to  be  regarded  in  after  years  as  of 
equal  evidential  value.  I  am  not  much  of  a  hand 
to  argue,  myself,  but  I  should  like  to  have  one  of 
these  carping  critics  meet  my  friend,  Mrs.  Sarah 
M.  Boggs,  who  has  taught  the  infant-class  since 
1867,  having  missed  only  two  Sundays  in  that 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  47 

time,  once,  in  f  879,  when  it  stormed  so  that  no 
body  in  town  was  out,  and  once,  last  winter  a 
year  ago,  when  she  slipped  off  the  back  porch 
and  hurt  her  knee.  I  can  just  see  Sister  Boggs 
laying  down  the  law  to  anybody  that  finds  fault 
with  the  infant-class,  let  him  be  preacher  or 
who.  Why  the  very  idea!  Do  you  mean  to  say, 
sir  —  I  guess  Sister  Boggs  can  straighten  him 
out  all  right. 

No  less  faithful  is  Mr.  Parker,  the  leading 
lawyer  of  the  town,  who  conducts  the  Bible- 
class.  I  believe  one  morning  he  did  n't  get  there 
until  after  the  last  bell  was  done  ringing,  but 
otherwise  his  record  of  attendance  compares  fa 
vorably  with  Sister  Boggs's.  Both  teachers  agree 
to  ignore  the  stated  lesson  for  the  day,  but  where 
as  Sister  Boggs  leads  her  flock  through  the  flow 
ery  meads  of  narration,  Mr.  Parker  and  his  class 
have  camped  out  by  preference  for  the  last  forty 
years  in  the  arid  wilderness  of  Romans  and  He 
brews  and  Corinthians  First  and  Second,  fling 
ing  the  plentiful  dornicks  of  "Paul  says  this" 
and  "Paul  says  that"  at  each  other's  heads  in 
friendly  strife.  Mr-  Parker's  class  is  also  very  as 
siduous  in  its  attendance  upon  the  Young  Peo- 


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pie's  meetings,  seemingly  holding  the  dogma> 
"Once  a  young  person  always  a  young  person." 
The  prevailing  style  of  hairdressing  among  the 
members  is  to  grow  the  locks  long  on  the  left  side 
of  the  head,  and  to  bring  the  thin  layer  across  to 
the  right,  pasted  down  very  carefully  with  a  sort 
of  peeled  onion  effect. 

There  is  a  whole  lot  of  them,  and  they  jower 
away  at  each  other  all  through  the  time  between 
the  opening  and  the  closing  exercises,  having  the 
liveliest  kind  of  a  time  getting  over  about  two 
verses  of  the  Bible  and  the  whole  ground  of 
speculative  theology. 

Immeasurably  more  impermanent  in  method 
and  personnel  is  the  regular  collegiate  depart 
ment,  the  Sabbath-school  proper.  In  the  early 
days,  away  back  when  sugar  was  sixteen  cents  a 
pound,  the  thing  to  do  was  to  learn  Scripture 
verses  by  heart.  If  you  were  a  rude,  rough  boy 
who  did  n't  exactly  love  the  Sunday-school  as 
much  as  the  hymn  made  you  say  you  did,  but 
still  one  who  had  rather  sing  it  than  stir  up  a 
muss,  you  hunted  for  the  shortest  verses  you 
could  find  and  said  them  off.  From  four  to  eight 
was  considered  a  full  day's  work.  But  if  you 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  49 

were  a  boy  who  put  on  an  apron  and  helped  your 
Ma  with  the  dishes,  a  boy  who  always  wiped 
your  feet  before  you  came  in,  a  boy  that  never 
got  kept  in  at  school,  a  boy  that  cried  pretty 
easy,  a  nice,  pale  boy,  with  bulging  blue  eyes, 
you  came  to  Sabbath-school  and  disgorged 
verses  like  buck-shot  out  of  a  bag.  The  four-to- 
eight-verse  boys  sat  and  listened,  and  improved 
their  minds.  There  was  generally  one  other  boy 
like  you  in  the  class,  and  it  was  nip-and-tuck  be 
tween  you  which  should  get  the  prize,  until  final 
ly  you  came  one  Sunday,  all  bloated  up  with  238 
verses  in  your  craw,  and  he  quit  discouraged. 
The  prize  was  yours.  It  was  a  beautiful  little 
Bible  with  a  brass  clasp;  it  had  two  tiny  silk 
strings  of  an  old-gold  color  for  bookmarks,  and 
gilt  edges  all  around  that  made  the  leaves  stick 
together  at  first.  It  was  printed  in  diamond  type, 
so  small  it  made  your  ears  ring  when  you  tried  to 
read  it. 

Other  faculties  than  that  of  memory  were 
called  into  action  in  those  days  by  problems  like 
these:  "Who  was  the  meekest  man?  Who  was 
the  strongest  man  ?  Who  was  the  father  of  Zebe- 
dee's  children  ?  Who  had  the  iron  bedstead,  and 


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whose  thumbs  and  great-toes  were  cut  off?" 
To  set  a  child  to  find  these  things  in  the 
Bible  without  a  concordance  seems  to  us  as 
futile  as  setting  him  to  hunt  a  needle  in  a 
haystack.  But  our  fathers  were  not  so  foolish 
as  we  like  to  think  them;  they  did  n't  care 
two  pins  if  we  never  discovered  who  had 
the  iron  bedstead,  but  they  knew  that,  leafing 
over  the  book,  we  should  light  upon  treasure 
where  we  sought  it  not,  kernels  of  the  sweetest 
meat  in  the  hardest  shells,  stories  of  en 
thralling  interest  where  we  least  expected 
them,  but,  most  of  all,  and  best  of  all,  texts 
that  long  afterward  in  time  of  trouble  should 
come  to  us,  as  it  were  the  voice  of  one  that 
also  had  eaten  the  bread  of  affliction,  call 
ing  to  us  across  the  chasm  of  the  centuries 
and  saying  :  "O,  tarry  thou  the  Lord's  leis 
ure:  be  strong  and  He  shall  comfort  thine 
heart." 

In  the  higher  classes,  that  still  were  not  high 
enough  to  rank  with  Mr.  Parker's,  the  exegetical 
powers  were  stimulated  in  thiswise:  "'And  they 
sung  a  hymn  and  went  out. '  Now  what  do  you 
understand  by  that  ?"  We  told  what  we  "under- 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  51 

stood,"  and  what  we  "held,"  and  what  we  "be 
lieved,"  and  laid  traps  for  the  teacher  and  tried 
to  corner  him  with  irrelevant  texts  wrenched 
from  their  context.  He  had  to  be  an  able  man 
and  a  nimble- witted  man.  Mere  piety  might  shine 
in  the  prayer-meeting,  in  the  class-room,  at  the 
quarterly  love-feast,  but  not  in  the  Sabbath- 
school.  I  remember  once  when  Brother  Butler 
was  away  they  set  John  Snyder  to  teach  us.  John 
did  n't  know  any  more  than  the  law  allowed,  and 
we  made  him  feel  it,  until  finally,  badgered  be 
yond  endurance,  he  blurted  out  that  all  he  knew 
was  that  he  was  a  sinner  saved  by  grace.  Maybe 
he  could  n't  just  tell  where  to  find  this,  that, 
and  t'  other  thing  in  the  Bible,  but  he  could 
turn  right  to  the  place  where  it  said  that 
though  a  body's  sins  were  as  scarlet,  yet  they 
should  be  white  as  snow.  It  was  regarded  as 
a  very  poor  sort  of  an  excuse  then,  but  thinking 
it  over  here  lately,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that 
maybe  John  had  the  root  of  the  matter  in  him 
after  all. 

The  comparative  scarcity  of  polemical  ath 
letes  and  the  relative  plenty  of  the  Miss 
Susie  Goldrick  kind  of  teachers,  apparently 


52  BACK  HOME 

called  into  being  the  Berean  Lesson  Leaf  system, 
with  its  Bible  cut  up  into  lady-bites  of  ten  or 
twelve  verses,  its  Golden  Topics,  Golden  Texts, 
its  apt  alliterations,  like: 


s 


AMUEL 
EEKS 
AUL 
ORROWING 


and  its  questions  prepared  in  tabloid  form,  suit 
able  for  the  most  enfeebled  digestions,  see  direc 
tions  printed  on  inside  wrapper.  Among  the 
many  evidences  of  the  degeneracy  of  the  age  is 
the  scandalous  ignorance  of  our  young  people 
regarding  the  sacred  Scriptures,  which  at  the 
very  lowest  estimate  are  incontestably  the  finest 
English  ever  written.  Those  whose  childhood 
antedates  the  lesson  leaf  are  not  so  unfamiliar 
with  that  wondrous  treasure-house  of  thought.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  say  what  has  wrought  the  change. 
I  can  only  point  out  that  lesson  leaves,  being 
about  the  right  size  for  shaving  papers,  barely 
last  from  Sunday  to  Sunday,  while  that  very 
identical  Bible  with  the  blinding  type  that  I  won 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  53 

years  and  years  ago,  by  learning  verses,  is  with 
me  still.  Yes,  and  as  I  often  wonder  to  discover, 
some  of  those  very  verses  that  I  gobbled 
down  as  heedlessly  as  any  ostrich  are  with  me 
still. 

Remain  to  be  considered  the  opening  and 
closing  exercises  principally  devoted,  I  remem 
ber,  to  learning  new  tunes  and  singing  old  ones 
out  of  books  with  pretty  titles,  like  "Golden  Cen 
ser,"  "Silver  Spray,"  "Pearl  and  Gold," 
"  Sparkling  Dewdrops,"  and  "  Sabbath  Chimes." 
I  was  n't  going  to  tell  it,  but  I  might  as  well,  I 
suppose.  I  can  remember  as  far  back  as  "Musi 
cal  Leaves."  There  must  be  quite  a  lot  of  people 
scattered  about  the  country  who  sung  out  of  that 
when  they  were  little.  I  wish  a  few  of  us  old  cod 
gers  might  get  together  some  time  and  with 
many  a  hummed  and  prefatory,  "Do,  mi,  sol, 
do;  sol,  mi  ...  mi-i-i-i,"  finally  manage  to 
quaver  out  the  sweet  old  tunes  we  learned  when 
we  were  little  tads,  each  with  a  penny 
in  his  fat,  warm  hand:  "Shall  we  Gather 
at  the  River?  "and  "Work,  for  the  Night 
is  Coming";  and  what  was  the  name  of  that 
one  about 


54  BACK  HOME 

"The  waves  shall  come  and  the  rolling  thunder  shock 
Shall  beat  upon  the  house  that  is  founded  on  a  rock, 
And  it  never  shall  fall,  never,  never,  never." 

What  the  proper  English  tune  is  to  "I  think 
when  I  read  that  sweet  story  of  old"  I  cannot 
tell,  but  I  am  sure  it  can  never  melt  my  heart  as 
that  one  in  the  old  "Musical  Leaves/'  with  its 
twistful  repetitions  of  the  last  line: 

"I  should  like  to  have  been  with  Him  then, 
I  should  like  to  have  been  with  Him  then9 
When  He  took  little  children  like  lambs  to  His  fold9 
I  should  like  to  have  been  with  Him  then" 

I  fear  we  could  not  sing  that  without  breaking 
down.  As  we  recall  it,  we  draw  an  inward  flutter 
ing  breath,  something  grips  our  throats  and 
makes  them  ache,  our  eyes  blur,  and  a  tear  slips 
down  upon  the  cheek,  not  of  sorrow  —  God 
knows  not  all  of  sorrow  —  but  if  we  had  it  all  to 
live  over  again,  how  differently  we  —  oh,  well, 
it 's  too  late  now,  but  still. 

Leafing  over  my  little  girl's  "Arabian  Nights" 
the  other  day,  when  I  came  to  the  story  of  "The 
Enchanted  Horse,"  I  found  myself  humming, 


I 

-°'          '& 


"He  was  a  sinner  saved  by  grace  "         One  dolla  tbutty-cigbt  cents  " 


"And  bad  to  keep  sucking  tt"  "Now,  dear  children 


In   the   Sabbatb-Scbool 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  55 

"Land  ahead!  Its  fruits  are  waving."  My  father 
used  to  lead  the  singing  in  Sabbath-school,  and 
when  he  was  sol-fa-ing  that  tune  to  learn  it,  I  was 
devouring  that  story,  and  was  just  about  at  the 
picture  where  Prince  What  's-his-name  rises  up 
into  the  air  on  the  Enchanted  Horse,  with  his 
true  love  hanging  on  behind,  and  all  the  multi 
tude  below  holding  their  turbans  on  as  they  look 
up  and  exclaim:  "Well,  if  that  don't  beat  the 
Dutch!" 

And  another  tune  still  excites  in  me  the  sullen 
resentment  that  it  did  when  I  first  heard  it.  In 
those  days,  just  as  a  fellow  got  to  the  exciting 
part  in  "Frank  at  Don  Carlos's  Ranch,"  or 
whatever  the  book  was,  there  was  kindling  to  be 
split,  or  an  armful  of  wood  to  be  brought  in,  or  a 
pitcher  of  water  from  the  well,  or  "  run  over  to 
Mrs.  Boggs's  and  ask  her  if  she  won't  please  lend 
me  her  fluting-iron,"  or  "run  down  to  Gal- 
braith's  and  get  me  a  spool  of  white  thread, 
Number  60,  and  hurry  right  back,  because  then 
I  want  you  to  go  over  to  Sarepta  Downey's  and 
take  her  that  polonaise  pattern  she  asked  me  to 
cut  out  for  her,"  or  —  there  was  always  some 
thing  on  hand.  So  what  should  one  of  these  com- 


56  BACK  HOME 

posers  do  —  I  don't  know  what  ever  possessed 
the  man  —  but  go  write  a  Sabbath-school  song 
with  this  chorus: 

"There  'II  be  something  to  do, 
There  '//  be  something  to  do, 
There  'II  be  something  for  children  to  Jo: 
On  that  bright  shining  shore, 
Where  there  *s  joy  evermore, 
There  9ll  be  something  for  children  to  do." 

I  suppose  he  thought  that  would  be  an  induce 
ment! 

One  of  these  days  America  is  going  to  be  the 
musical  center  of  the  world.  When  that  day  is 
fully  come,  and  men  sit  down  to  write  about  it,  I 
hope  they  won't  forget  to  give  due  credit  to  the 
reed  organ,  Stephen  Foster,  and  the  Sabbath- 
school.  The  reed  organ  had  a  lot  to  do  with  musi 
cal  culture.  It  is  much  decried  now  by  people 
that  prefer  a  piano  that  has  n't  been  tuned  for 
four  years;  but  the  reed  organ  will  come  into  its 
own  some  day,  don't  forget.  Without  it  the  Sab 
bath-school  could  not  have  been.  Anybody  that 
would  have  a  piano  in  a  Sabbath-school  ought  to 
be  prosecuted. 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  57 

When  music,  heavenly  maid,  was  just  coming 
to  after  that  awful  lick  the  Puritans  hit  her,  the 
first  sign  of  returning  life  was  that  people  began 
to  tire  of  the  ten  or  a  dozen  tunes  to  which  our 
great-grandfathers  droned  and  snuffled  all  their 
hymns.  In  those  days  there  was  raised  up  a  man 
named  Stephen  Foster,  who  "heard  in  his  soul 
the  music  of  wonderful  melodies,"  and  we  have 
been  singing  them  ever  since  -  '  'Way  Down 
upon  the  Swanee  Ribber,"  and  "Old  Kentucky 
Home,"  and  "Nellie  Gray,"  and  the  rest.  Then 
Bradbury  and  Philip  Phillips  and  many  more  of 
them  began  to  write  exactly  the  same  kind  of 
tunes  for  sacred  words.  They  were  just  the  thing 
for  the  Sabbath-school,  but  they  were  more, 
much  more. 

You  know  that  when  a  fellow  gets  so  he  can 
shave  himself  without  cutting  half  his  lip  off, 
when  it  takes  him  half  an  hour  to  get  the  part  in 
his  hair  to  suit  him,  when  he  gets  in  the  way 
of  shining  his  shoes  and  has  a  pretty  taste 
in  neckties,  he  does  n't  want  to  bawl  the 
air  of  a  piece  like  the  old  stick-in-the-muds 
up  in  the  Amen  corner  or  in  Mr.  Parker's 
class.  He  wants  to  sing  bass.  Air  is  too  high 


58  BACK  HOME 

for  him  anyhow  unless  he  sings  it  with  a  hog 
noise.  Oh,  you  get  out!  You  do,  too,  know 
what  a  "  hog  noise  "  is.  You  want  to  let  on  you  *ve 
always  lived  in  town.  Likely  story  if  you  never 
heard  anybody  in  the  hog-pasture  with  a  basket 
of  nubbins  calling,  "Peeg!  Peeg!  Boo-ee!  Boo- 
ee!"  A  man's  voice  breaks  into  falsetto  on  the 
"  Boo-ee!"  Well,  anyhow,  such  a  young  man  as  I 
am  telling  you  of  would  be  ashamed  to  sing  with 
a  hog  noise.  He  wants  to  sing  bass.  Now  the  regu 
lar  hymn-tunes  change  the  bass  as  often  as  they 
change  the  soprano,  and  if  you  go  fumbling 
about  for  the  note,  by  the  time  you  get  it  right  it  is 
wrong,  because  the  tune  has  gone  on  and  left 
you.  The  Sabbath-school  songs  had  the  young 
man  Absalom  distinctly  in  view.  They  made  the 
bass  the  same  all  through  the  measure,  and  all 
the  changes  were  strictly  on  the  do,  sol  and  fa 
basis.  As  far  as  the  other  notes  in  the  scale  were 
concerned,  the  young  man  Absalom  need  not 
bother  his  head  with  them.  With  do,  sol  and  fa  he 
could  sing  through  the  whole  book  from  cover  to 
cover  as  good  as  anybody. 

When  people  find  out  what  fun  it  is  to  sing  by 
note,  it  is  only  a  step  to  the  "Messiah,"  two 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  59 

blocks  up  and  turn  to  the  right,  as  you  might  say. 
After  that,  it  is  only  going  ahead  till  you  get  to 
"Vogner."  Yes,  and  many  's  the  day  you  called 
the  hogs.  Don't  tell  me. 

Once  a  month  on  Sunday  evenings  there  were 
Sabbath-school  concerts.  The  young  ones  sat  in 
the  front  seats,  ten  or  twelve  in  a  pew.  "Now, 
children,"  said  the  superintendent,  "I  want  you 
all  to  sing  loud  and  show  the  folks  how  nice  you 
can  sing.  Page  65.  Sixty-fi'th  page,  'Scatter  Seeds 
of  Kindness.'  Now,  all  sing  out  now."  We  licked 
our  thumbs  and  scuffled  through  the  book  till  we 
found  the  place.  We  scowled  at  it,  and  stuck  out 
our  mouths  at  it,  and  shrieked  at  it,  and  bawled 
at  it,  and  did  the  very  best  we  knew  to  give  an 
imitation  of  two  hundred  little  pigs  all  grabbed  by 
the  hind  leg  at  once.  That  was  what  made  folks 
call  it  a  concert. 

There  were  addresses  to  the  dear  children  by 
persons  that  teetered  on  their  toes  and  dimpled 
their  cheeks  in  dried-apple  smiles  as  us.  Some 
complain  that  they  do  not  know  how  to  talk  to 
children  and  keep  them  interested.  Oh,  pshaw! 
Simple  as  A  B  C.  Once  you  learn  the  trick  you 
can  talk  to  the  little  folks  for  an  hour  and  a  half 


60  BACK  HOME 

on  "Banking  as  Related  to  National  Finance," 
and  keep  them  on  the  quiver  of  excitement.  Ask 
questions.  And  to  be  sure  that  they  give  the 
right  answers  (a  very  important  thing)  remem 
ber  this:  When  you  wish  them  to  say  "Yes,  sir," 
end  your  question  with  "Don't  they  ?"  or  "Is  n't 
it  ?"  When  you  wish  them  to  say  "No,  sir,"  end 
your  question  with  "Do  they?"  or  "Is  it?" 
When  you  wish  them  to  choose  between  two  an 
swers,  mention  first  the  one  they  must  n't  take, 
then  pause,  look  archly  at  them,  and  mention  the 
one  they  must  take.  Thus: 

Q.  —  Now,  dear  children,  I  wonder  if  you  can 
tell  me  where  the  sun  rises.  In  the  north,  does  n't 
it? 

A.  —  Yes,  sir. 

Q.  —  Yes,  you  are  right.  In  the  north.  And  be 
cause  it  rises  in  the  north  every  afternoon  at 
three,  how  do  we  walk  about  ?  On  our  feet,  do 
we  ? 

A.  —  No,  sir. 

Q.  —  No.  Of  course  not.  Then  how  is  it  we  do 
walk  about  ?  On  our  ears  or  —  (now  the  look)  — 
on  our  noses  ? 

A.  —  On  our  noses. 


THE  SABBATH-SCHOOL  61 

This  method,  if  carefully  and  systematically 
employed,  was  never  known  to  fail.  It  is  called 
the  Socratic  method. 

The  most  interesting  feature  of  the  monthly 
Sabbath-school  concert  is  universally  conceded 
to  be  the  treasurer's  report.  So  much  on  hand  at 
the  last  meeting,  so  much  contributed  by  each 
class  during  the  month  last  past,  so  much  ex 
pended,  so  much  left  on  hand  at  present.  We 
used  to  sit  and  listen  to  it  with  slack  jaws  and 
staring  eyes.  Money,  money,  oceans  of  money! 
Thirty-eight  cents  and  seventy-six  cents  and  a 
dollar  four  cents!  My! 

The  librarian's  report  was  nowhere.  It  was  a 
bully  1  brary,  too,  and  contained  the" Through 
by  Daylight"  Series,  and  the  "Ragged  Dick" 
Series,  and  the  "Tattered  Tom"  Series,  and  the 
"Frank  on  the  Gunboat"  Series,  and  the" Frank 
the  Young  Naturalist"  Series,  and  the  "Elm  Isl 
and"  Series  —  Did  you  ever  read  "The  Ark  of 
Elm  Island"  ?  and  "Giant  Ben  of  Elm  Island"  ? 
You  did  n't  ?  Ah,  you  missed  it  —  and  the 
"B.  O.  W.  C."  Series  —  and  say!  there  was  a 
book  in  that  library  —  oo-oo!  "Cast  up  by  the 
Sea,"  all  about  wreckers,  and  false  lights  on  the 


62  BACK   HOME 

shore,  and  adventures  in  Central  Africa,  and 
there  's  a  nigger  queen  that  wants  to  marry  him, 
and  he  don't  want  to  because  he  loves  a  girl  in 
England  —  I  think  that 's  kind  of  soft  —  and  he 
kills  about  a  million  of  them  trying  to  get  away. 
You  want  to  get  that  book.  Don't  let  them  give 
you  "Patient  Henry"  or  "Charlie  Watson,  the 
Drunkard's  Little  Son."  They  're  about  boys 
that  take  sick  and  die  —  no  good. 

It  was  a  bully  library,  but  the  report  was  n't  in 
teresting.  Major  Humphreys's  always  was.  He 
was  the  treasurer  because  he  worked  in  the  bank. 
He  came  from  the  Western  Reserve,  and  said 
"cut"  when  he  meant  coat,  and  "hahnt"  when 
he  meant  heart.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  hear  him 
read  his  report  now:  "Infant-class,  Mrs.  Sarah 
M.  Boggs,  one  dolla  thutty-eight  cents;  Miss 
Dan'ells's  class,  fawty-six  cents;  Miss  Goldrick's 
class,  twenty-faw  cents;  Mr.  Pahnker's  class, 
ninety-three  cents;  Miss  Rut's  class,  naw  re- 
pawt." 

Poor  old  Miss  Root!  There  was  hardly  ever 
any  report  from  her  class.  Often  she  had  n't  a 
penny  to  give,  and  perhaps  the  other  old  ladies, 
who  found  the  keenest  possible  delight  in  doing: 


THE   SABBATH-SCHOOL  63 

what  they  called  "running  up  the  references," 
had  no  more,  for  they  were  relics  of  an  age  when 
women  were  n't  supposed  to  have  money  to  fling 
right  and  left  in  the  foolish  way  that  women  will 
if  they  're  not  looked  after  —  shoes  for  the  baby, 
and  a  new  calico  dress  every  two  or  three  years 
or  so. 

Yes,  it  is  rather  interesting  for  a  change  now 
and  then  to  hear  these  folks  go  on  about  what  a 
terrible  thing  the  Sabbath-school  is,  and  how  it 
does  more  harm  than  good.  They  get  really  ex 
cited  about  it,  and  storm  around  as  if  they  ex 
pected  folks  to  take  them  seriously.  They  know, 
just  as  well  as  we  do,  that  this  would  n't  be  any 
kind  of  a  country  at  all  if  we  could  n't  look  back 
and  remember  the  Sabbath-school,  or  if  we 
could  n't  fix  up  the  children  Sunday  afternoons, 
and  find  their  lesson  leaves  for  them,  and  hunt  up 
a  penny  to  give  to  the  poor  heathen,  and  hear 
them  say  the  Golden  Text  before  they  go,  and 
tell  them  to  be  nice.  Papa  and  mamma  watch 
them  from  the  window  till  they  turn  the  corner, 
and  then  go  back  to  the  Sunday  paper  with  a  se 
cure  sort  of  feeling.  They  won't  learn  anything 
they  ought  n't  to  at  the  Sabbath-school. 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR 

"'It  snows!9  cries  the  schoolboy,  'Hurrah!9 

And  his  shout  is  heard  through  parlor  and  hall99 

McGuFFEY's  THIRD  READER. 

(Well,  maybe  it  was  the  Second  Reader.  And  if  it  was  the  Fourth,  what 
difference  does  it  make  ?  And,  furthermore,  who  *s  doing  this  thing,  you  or 
me?) 

HAD  it  not  been  that  never  in  my  life  have 
I  ever  heard  anybody  say  either  "It 
snows ! "  or  "  Hurrah ! "  it  is  improbable 
that  I  should  have  remembered  the  first  line  of  a 
poem  describing  the  effect  produced  upon  differ 
ent  kinds  of  people  by  the  sight  of  the  first  snow 
storm  of  winter.  Had  it.  not  been  for  the  plucky 
(not  to  say  heroic)  effort  to  rhyme  "hall"  with 
"hurrah"  I  should  not  have  remembered  the 
second,  and  still  another  line  of  it,  depicting  the 
emotions  of  a  poor  widow  with  a  large  family  and 

64 


THE   REVOLVING  YEAR  65 

a  small  woodpile,  is  burned  into  my  memory  only 
by  reason  of  the  shocking  language  it  contains, 
the  more  shocking  in  that  it  was  deliberately  put 
forth  to  be  read  by  innocent-minded  children. 
Poor  Carrie  Rinehart!  When  she  stood  up  to 
read  that,  she  got  as  red  as  a  beet,  and  I  be 
lieved  her  when  she  told  me  afterward  that  she 
thought  she  would  sink  right  through  that  floor. 
Of  course,  some  had  to  snicker,  but  the  most  of 
us,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  were  a  credit  to  our 
bringing  up,  and  never  let  on  we  heard  it.  All  the 
same  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to  have  to  speak 
right  out  loud  before  everybody.  If  any  of  the 
boys  (let  alone  the  girls),  had  said  that  because 
he  felt  like  saying  it,  he  would  have  been  sent  in 
to  the  principal,  and  that  night  his  daddy  would 
have  given  him  another  licking. 

Even  now  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  write  the 
line  without  toning  it  down. 

"'It  snows!9  cries  the  widow.  'Ob  G  —  d!'" 

At  the  beginning  of  winter,  I  will  not  deny, 
that  the  schoolboy  might  have  shouted:  "It's 
snowin'l  Hoo-ee!"  when  he  saw  the  first  snow- 


66  BACK  HOME 

flakes  sifting  down,  and  realized  that  the  Old 
Woman  was  picking  her  geese.  A  change  is  al 
ways  exciting,  and  winter  brings  many  joyous 
sports  and  pastimes,  skating,  and  snowballing, 
and  sliding  down  hill,  and  —  er  —  er  —  I  said 
skating  did  n't  I  ?  and  —  er  —  Oh,  yes,  sleigh- 
riding,  and  —  er  —  Well,  I  guess  that 's  aboUt 
all. 

Skating,  now,  that 's  fine.  I  know  a  boy  who, 
when  the  red  ball  goes  up  in  the  street-cars, 
sneaks  under  his  coat  a  pair  of  wooden-soled 
skates,  with  runners  that  curl  up  over  the  toes 
like  the  stems  of  capital  letters  in  the  Spencerian 
copy-book.  He  is  ashamed  of  the  old-fashioned 
things,  which  went  out  of  date  long  and  long  be 
fore  my  day,  but  he  says  that  they  are  better  than 
the  hockeys.  Well,  you  take  a  pair  of  such  skates 
and  strap  them  on  tightly  until  you  can't  tell  by 
the  feel  which  is  feet  and  which  is  wooden  soles, 
and  you  glide  out  upon  the  ice  above  the  dam  for, 
say  about  four  hours,  with  the  wind  from  the 
northwest  and  the  temperature  about  nine  be 
low,  and  I  tell  you  it  is  something  grand.  And  if 
you  run  over  a  stick  that  is  frozen  in  the  ice,  or 
somebody  bumps  into  you,  or  your  feet  slide  out 


THE   REVOLVING  YEAR  67 

from  under  you,  and  you  strike  on  your  ear  and 
part  of  your  face  on  the  ice,  and  go  about  ten  feet 
—  ah,  it  's  great!  Simply  great.  And  it 's  nice 
too,  to  skate  into  an  air-hole  into  water  about  up 
to  your  neck,  and  have  the  whole  mob  around 
you  whooping  and  "  hollering"  and  slapping  their 
legs  with  glee,  because  they  know  it  is  n't  deep 
enough  to  drown  you,  and  you  look  so  comical 
trying  to  claw  out.  And  when  you  do  get  out,  it 
takes  such  a  long  time  to  get  your  skates  off,  and 
you  feel  so  kind  of  chilly  like,  and  when  you  get 
home  your  clothes  are  frozen  stiff  on  you  —  Oh, 
who  would  willingly  miss  such  sport  ? 

And  sleigh-riding!  Me  for  sleigh-riding!  You 
take  a  nice,  sharp  day  in  winter,  when  the  sky  is 
as  blue  as  can  be  because  all  the  moisture  is 
frozen  out  of  the  air,  a  day  when  the  snow  under 
the  sleigh  runners  whines  and  creaks,  as  if  thou 
sands  of  tiny  wine-glasses  were  being  crushed  by 
them,  and  the  bells  go  jing-jing,  jing-jing  on  the 
frosty  air  which  just  about  takes  the  hide  off 
your  face;  when  you  hold  your  mittens  up  to 
your  ears  and  then  have  to  take  them  down  to 
slap  yourself  across  the  chest  to  get  the  blood  a- 
going  in  your  fingers;  when  you  kick  your  feet 


68  BACK  HOME 

together  and  dumbly  wonder  why  it  is  your  toes 
don't  click  like  marbles;  when  the  cold  creeps  up 
under  your  knitted  pulse-warmers,  and  in  at  every 
possible  little  leak  until  it  has  soaked  into  your 
very  bones;  when  you  snuggle  down  under  the 
lap-robe  where  it  is  warm  as  toast  (day  before 
yesterday's  toast)  and  try  to  pull  your  shoulders 
up  over  your  head;  when  a  little  drop  hangs  on 
the  end  of  your  nose,  which  has  ceased  to  feel 
like  a  living,  human  nose,  and  now  resembles 
something  whittled  to  a  point;  when  you  hold 
your  breath  as  long  as  you  can,  and  your  jaw 
waggles  as  if  you  were  playing  chin-chopper  with 
it  —  Ah,  that 's  the  sport  of  kings!  And  after  you 
have  got  as  cold  as  you  possibly  can  get,  and  sim 
ply  cannot  stand  it  a  minute  longer,  you  ride  and 
ride  and  ride  and  ride  and  ride  and  ride  and  ride 
and  ride  and  ride.  Once  in  a  while  you  turn  out 
for  another  sleigh,  and  nearly  upset  in  the  pro 
cess,  and  you  can  see  that  in  all  points  its  occu 
pants  are  exactly  as  you  are,  just  as  happy  and 
contented.  There  are  n't  any  dogs  to  run  out  and 
bark  at  you.  Old  Maje  and  Tige,  and  even  little 
Bounce  and  Guess  are  snoozing  behind  the 
kitchen  stove.  All  there  is  is  just  jing-jing,  jing- 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  69 

jing,  jing-jing,  not  a  bird-cry  or  a  sound  of  living 
creature.  Jing-jing,  jing-jing.  .  .  .  Well, 
yes,  kind  o'  monotonous,  but  still.  .  .  .  You 
pass  a  house,  and  a  woman  comes  out  to  scrape 
off  a  plate  to  the  chickens  standing  on  one  foot  in 
a  corner  where  the  sun  can  get  at  them,  and  the 
wind  cannot.  She  scrapes  slowly,  and  looks  at  you 
as  much  as  to  say:  "I  wonder  who  's  sick.  Must 
be  somebody  going  for  the  doctor,  day  like  this." 
And  then  she  shudders:  " B-b-b-oo-oo-oo ! "  and 
runs  back  into  the  house  and  slams  the  door  hard. 
You  snuffle  and  look  at  the  chimney  that  has 
thick  white  smoke  coming  out  of  it,  and  consider 
that  very  likely  a  nice,  warm  fire  is  making  all 
that  smoke,  and  you  snuffle  again,  and  ride  and 
ride  and  ride  and  ride  and  ride  and  ride  and  ride 
and  ride.  And  about  an  hour  and  a  half  after  you 
have  given  up  all  hopes,  and  are  getting  resigned 
to  your  fate,  you  turn  off  the  big  road  and  up  the 
lane  to  the  house  where  you  are  going  on  your 
pleasure-trip,  and  you  hop  out  as  nimble  as  a 
sack  of  potatoes,  and  hobble  into  the  house,  and 
don't  say  how-de-do  or  anything,  but  just  make 
right  for  the  stove.  The  people  all  squall  out: 
"Why,  ain't  you  'most  froze  ?"  and  if  you  an- 


;o  BACK  HOME 

swer,  "Yes  sum,"  it 's  as  much  as  ever.  General 
ly  you  can't  do  anything  but  just  stand  and  snuf 
fle  and  look  as  if  you  had  n't  a  friend  on  earth. 
And  about  the  time  you  get  so  that  some  spots 
are  pretty  warm,  and  other  spots  are  n't  as  cold 
as  they  were,  why  then  you  wrap  up,  and  go 
home  again  with  the  same  experience,  only  more 
so.  Fine!  fine! 

It 's  nice,  too,  when  there  's  a  whole  crowd  out 
together  in  a  wagon-bed  with  straw  in  it.  There  's 
something  so  cozy  in  straw!  And  the  tin  horns 
you  blow  in  each  other's  ear,  and  the  songs  you 
sing:  "Jingle  bells,  jingle  bells,  jingle  all  the 
way,"  and  "  Waw-unneeta !  Waw-unneeta, 
ay-usk  thy  sowl  if  we  shud  part,"  and  "Nearer, 
my  God,  to  Thee,"  and  "Johnny  Shmoker,"  and 
that  variation  of  "John  Brown's  Body,"  where 
every  time  you  sing  over  the  verse  you  leave  off 
one  more  word,  and  somebody  always  forgets, 
and  you  laugh  fit  to  kill  yourself,  and  just  have  a 
grand  time.  And  maybe  you  take  a  whole  lot  of 
canned  cove  oysters  with  you,  and  when  you  get 
out  to  Makemson's,  or  wherever  it  is  you  're  go 
ing,  Mrs.  Makemson  puts  the  kettle  on  and 
makes  a  stew,  cooking  the  oysters  till  they  are 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  71 

thoroughly  done.  And  she  makes  coffee,  the  kind 
you  can't  tell  from  tea  by  the  looks,  and  have  to 
try  twice  before  you  can  tell  by  the  taste.  Ah! 
winter  brings  many  joyous  sports  and  pastimes 
And  you  get  back  home  along  about  half-past 
two,  and  the  fire  's  out,  and  the  folks  are  in  bed, 
and  you  have  to  be  at  the  store  to  open  up  at 
seven  —  Laws !  I  wish  it  was  so  I  could  go 
sleigh-riding  once  more  in  the  long  winter  eve 
nings,  when  the  pitcher  in  the  spare  bedroom 
bursts,  and  makes  a  noise  like  a  cannon. 

And  sliding  down  hill,  I  like  that.  .  .  . 
What  ?  Coasting  ?  Never  heard  of  it.  If  it 's  any 
thing  like  sliding  down  hill,  it 's  all  right.  For  a 
joke  you  can  take  a  barrel-stave  and  hold  on  to 
that  and  slide  down.  It  goes  like  a  scared  rabbit, 
but  that  is  n't  so  much  the  point  as  that  it  slews 
around  and  spills  you  into  a  drift.  Sleds  are  lower 
and  narrower  than  they  used  to  be,  and  they  also 
lack  the  artistic  adornment  of  a  pink,  or  a  blue, 
or  a  black  horse,  painted  with  the  same  stencil 
but  in  different  colors,  and  named  "  Dexter,"  or 
"  Rarus,"  or  "  Goldsmith  Maid."  These  are  good 
names,  but  nobody  ever  called  his  sled  by  a 
name. 


72  BACK  HOME 

Boggs's  hill,  back  of  the  lady's  house  that 
taught  the  infant-class  in  Sunday-school,  was  a 
good  hill.  It  had  a  creek  at  the  bottom,  and  a  fine, 
long  ride,  eight  or  ten  feet,  on  the  ice.  But  Dang 
ler's  hill  was  the  boss.  It  was  the  one  we  all  made 
up  our  minds  we  would  ride  down  some  day  when 
the  snow  was  just  right.  We  'd  go  over  there  and 
look  up  to  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  say : "  Gee !  But 
wouldn't  a  fellow  come  down  like  sixty, though  ?" 

"Betchy!" 

We  'd  look  up  again,  and  somebody  would  say: 
"Aw,  come  on.  Less  go  over  to  Boggs's  hill. " 

"Thought  you  was  goin'  down  Dangler's." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  all  the  other  fellows  is  over 
to  Boggs's." 

"A-ah,  ye're  afraid." 

"Ain't  either." 

"Y'areteether." 

"I  dare  you." 

" Oh,  well  now—  " 

"I  double  dare  you." 

"All  right.  I  will  if  you  will.  You  go  first." 

"Nah,  you  go  first.  The  fellow  that 's  dared 
has  got  to  go  first.  Ain't  that  so,  Chuck  ?  Ain't 
that  so,  Monkey  ?" 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  73 

"  I  '11  go  down  if  you  will,  on'y  you  gotta  go 
first." 

"Er  —  er  —  Who  all 's  over  at  Boggs's  hill  ?" 

"Oh,  the  whole  crowd  of  'em,  Turkey-egg 
McLaughlin,  and  Ducky  Harshberger,  and  — 
Oh,  I  don'  know  who  all." 

"Tell  you  what  less  do.  Less  wait  till  it  gets  all 
covered  with  ice,  and  all  slick  and  smooth.  Then 
less  come  over  and  go  down. " 

"Say,  won't  she  go  like  sixty  then!  Jeemses 
Rivers!  Come  on,  I  '11  beat  you  to  the 
corner. " 

That  was  the  closest  we  ever  came  to  going 
down  Dangler's  hill.  Railroad  hill  was  n't  so  bad, 
over  there  by  the  soap-factory,  because  they 
did  n't  run  trains  all  the  time,  and  you  stood  a 
good  chance  of  missing  being  run  over  by  the 
engine,  but  Dangler's  —  Well,  now,  I  want  to 
tell  you  Dangler's  was  an  awful  steep  hill,  and  a 
long  one,  and  when  you  think  that  it  was  so  steep 
nobody  ever  pretended  to  drive  up  it  even  in  the 
summer-time,  and  you  slide  down  the  hill  and 
think  that,  once  you  got  to  going.  .  .  . 
Fun's  fun,  I  know,  but  nobody  wants  to  go  home 
with  half  his  scalp  hanging  over  one  eye,  and 


74  BACK  HOME 

dripping  all  over  the  back  porch.  Because,  you 
know,  a  fellow's  mother  gets  crosser  about  blood 
on  wood-work  than  anything  else.  Scrubbing 
does  n't  do  the  least  bit  of  good;  it  has  to  be  plan 
ed  off,  or  else  painted. 

Let  me  see,  now.  Have  I  missed  anything  ?  I  '11 
count  'em  off  on  my  fingers.  There  's  skating, 
and  sleigh-riding,  and  sliding  down  hill,  and  — 
Oh,  yes.  Snowballing  and  making  snow-men. 
Nobody  makes  a  snow-man  but  once,  and  no 
body  makes  a  snow-house  after  it  has  caved  in 
on  him  once  and  like  to  killed  him.  And  as  for 
snowballing  —  Look  here.  Do  you  know  what 's 
the  nicest  thing  about  winter  ?  Get  your  feet  on  a 
hot  stove,  and  have  the  lamp  over  your  left 
shoulder,  and  a  pan  of  apples,  and  something  ex 
citing  to  read,  like  "  Frank  Among  the  Indians. " 
Eh,  how  about  it  ?  In  other  words,  the  best  thing 
about  winter  is  when  you  can  forget  that  it  is 
winter. 

The  excitement  that  prompts  "It  snows!"  and 
"Hurrah!"  mighty  soon  peters  out,  and  along 
about  the  latter  part  of  February,  when  you  go 
to  the  window  and  see  that  it  is  snowing  again 
—  again  ?  Consarn  the  luck!  —  you  and  the  poor 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  75 

widow  with  the  large  family  and  the  small  wood 
pile  are  absolutely  at  one. 

You  do  get  so  sick  and  tired  of  winter.  School 
lets  out  at  four  o'clock,  and  it 's  almost  dark 
then.  There  's  no  time  for  play,  for  there  's  all 
that  wood  and  kindling  to  get  in,  and  Pap  's  aw 
ful  cranky  when  he  hops  out  of  bed  these  frosty 
mornings  to  light  the  fire,  and  finds  you  've  been 
skimpy  with  the  kindling.  And  the  pump  freezes 
up,  and  you  've  got  to  shovel  snow  off  the  walks 
and  out  in  the  back-yard  so  Tilly  can  hang  up  the 
clothes  when  she  comes  to  do  the  washing.  And 
your  mother  is  just  as  particular  about  your  neck 
being  clean  as  she  is  in  summer  when  the  water 
does  n't  make  you  feel  so  shivery.  And  there  's 
the  bottle  of  goose-grease  always  handy,  and 
the  red  flannel  to  pin  around  your  throat,  and 
your  feet  in  the  bucket  of  hot  water  before  you  go 
to  bed  —  "Aw,  put  'em  right  in.  Yes,  I  know  it's 
hot.  That 's  what  going  to  make  you  well.  In 
with  'em.  Aw,  child,  it  is  n't  going  to  scald  you. 
Go  on  now.  The  water  '11  be  stone-cold  in  a 
minute. "  Oh,  I  don't  like  winter  for  a  cent. 
Kitchoo!  There,  I  've  gone  and  caught  fresh  cold. 

I  wish  it  would  hurry  up  and  come  spring. 


76  BACK  HOME 

"  When  the  days  begin  to  lengthen, 
The  cold  begins  to  strengthen" 

Now,  you  know  that  does  n't  stand  to  reason. 
Every  day  the  sun  inches  a  little  higher  in  the 
heavens.  His  rays  strike  us  more  directly  and  for 
a  longer  time  each  day.  But  it 's  the  cantanker 
ous  fact,  and  it  simply  has  to  stand  to  reason. 
That 's  the  answer,  and  the  sum  has  to  be  figured 
out  somehow  in  accordance  with  it.  Like  one 
time,  when  I  was  about  sixteen  years  old,  and  in 
the  possession  of  positive  and  definite  informa 
tion  about  the  way  the  earth  went  around  the  sun 
and  all,  I  was  arguing  with  one  of  these  old  codg 
ers  that  think  they  know  it  all,  one  of  these  men 
that  think  it  is  so  smart  to  tell  you:  "Sonny, 
when  you  get  older,  you  '11  know  more  'n  you  do 
now  —  I  hope. "  Well,  he  was  trying  to  tell  me 
that  the  day  lengthened  at  one  end  before  it  did  at 
the  other.  I  did  my  best  to  dispel  the  foolish  no 
tion  from  his  mind,  and  explained  to  him  how  it 
simply  could  not  be,  but  no,  sir!  he  stood  me 
down.  Finally,  since  pure  reasoning  was  wasted 
on  him,  I  took  the  almanac  off  the  nail  it  hung  by, 
and  —  I  bedog  my  riggin's  if  the  old  skidama- 


THE   REVOLVING  YEAR  77 

link  was  n't  right  after  all.  Sundown  keeps  com 
ing  a  minute  later  every  day,  while,  for  quite  a 
while  there,  sun-up  sticks  at  the  same  old  time, 
7.30  A.M.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  fool 
ish  ? 

"Very  early,  while  it  is  yet  dark,"  the  alarm- 
clock  of  old  Dame  Nature  begins  to  buzz.  It  may 
snow  and  blow,  and  winter  may  seem  to  have 
settled  in  in  earnest,  but  deep  down  in  the  earth, 
the  root-tips,  where  lie  the  brains  of  vegetables, 
are  gaping  and  stretching,  and  ho-humming,  and 
wishing  they  could  snooze  a  little  longer.  When  it 
thaws  in  the  afternoon  and  freezes  up  at  sunset 
as  tight  as  bricks,  they  tell  me  that  out  in  the 
sugar-camp  there  are  great  doings.  I  don't  know 
about  it  myself,  but  I  have  heard  tell  of  boring  a 
hole  in  the  maple-tree,  and  sticking  in  a  spout, 
and  setting  a  bucket  to  catch  the  drip,  and  col 
lecting  the  sap,  and  boiling  down,  and  sugaring 
off.  I  have  heard  tell  of  taffy-pullings,  and  how 
Joe  Hendricks  stuck  a  whole  gob  of  maple-wax 
in  Sally  Miller's  hair,  and  how  she  got  even  with 
him  by  rubbing  his  face  with  soot.  It  is  only  hear 
say  with  me,  but  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  have  done: 
I  have  eaten  real  maple  sugar,  and  nearly  pulled 


78  BACK  HOME 

out  every  tooth  I  had  in  my  head  with  maple-wax, 
and  I  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  have  maple 
syrup  on  pancakes.  It 's  good,  too.  The  maple 
syrup  came  on  the  table  in  a  sort  of  a  glass  flagon 
with  a  metal  lid  to  it,  and  it  was  considered  the 
height  of  bad  manners  to  lick  off  the  last  drop  of 
syrup  that  hung  on  the  nose  of  the  flagon.  And  yet 
it  must  not  be  allowed  to  drip  on  the  table-cloth. 
It  is  a  pity  we  can't  get  any  more  maple  syrup 
nowadays,  but  I  don't  feel  so  bad  about  the  loss 
of  it,  as  I  do  to  think  what  awful  liars  people  can 
be,  declaring  on  the  label  that  'deed  and 
double,  'pon  their  word  and  honor,  it  is  pure, 
genuine,  unadulterated  maple  syrup,  when  they 
know  just  as  well  as  they  know  anything  that  it  is 
only  store-sugar  boiled  up  with  maple  chips. 

Along  about  the  same  time,  the  boys  come 
home  with  a  ring  of  mud  around  their  mouths, 
and  exhaling  spicy  breaths  like  those  which  blow 
o'er  Ceylon's  isle  in  the  hymn-book.  They 
bear  a  bundle  of  roots,  whose  thick,  pink  hide 
mother  whittles  off  with  the  butcher-knife  and 
sets  to  steep.  Put  away  the  store  tea  and  coffee. 
To-night  as  we  drink  the  reddish  aromatic  brew 
we  return,  not  only  to  our  own  young  days,  but 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  79 

to  the  young  days  of  the  nation  when  our  folks 
moved  to  the  West  in  a  covered  wagon;  when 
grandpap,  only  a  little  boy  then,  about  as  big  as 
Charley  there,  got  down  the  rifle  and  killed  the 
bear  that  had  climbed  into  the  hog-pen  ; 
when  they  found  old  Cherry  out  in  the  timber 
with  her  calf  between  her  legs,  and  two  wolves 
lying  where  she  had  horned  them  to  death  —  we 
return  to-night  to  the  high,  heroic  days  of  old, 
when  our  forefathers  conquered  the  wilderness 
and  our  foremothers  reared  the  families  that 
peopled  it.  This  cup  of  sassafras  to-night  in  their 
loving  memory!  Earth,  rest  easy  on  their  molder- 
ing  bones! 

Some  there  be  that  still  take  stock  in  the 
ground-hog.  I  don't  believe  he  knows  anything 
about  it.  And  I  believe  that  any  animal  that  had 
the  sense  that  he  is  reputed  to  have  would  not  have 
remained  a  mere  ground-hog  all  these  years.  At 
least  not  in  this  country.  Anyhow,  it 's  a  longways 
ahead,  six  weeks  is,  especially  at  the  time  when 
you  do  wish  so  fervently  that  it  would  come  spring. 
We  keep  on  shoveling  coal  in  the  furnace,  and 
carrying  out  ashes,  and  longing  and  crying :  "  Oh, 
for  pity's  sakes!  When  is  this  going  to  stop  ?" 


8o  BACK  HOME 

And  then,  one  morning,  we  awaken  with  a 
start  Wha-what  ?  Sh!  Keep  still,  can't  you? 
There  is  a  more  canorous  and  horn-like  quality  to 
the  crowing  of  Gildersleeve's  rooster,  and  his 
hens  chant  cheerily  as  they  kick  the  litter  about. 
But  it  was  n't  these  cheerful  sounds  that 
wakened  us  with  a  start.  There!  Hear  that? 
Hear  it  ?  Two  or  three  long-drawn,  reedy 
notes,  and  an  awkward  boggle  at  a  trill,  but 
oh,  how  sweet!  How  sweet!  It  is  the  song- 
sparrow,  blessed  bird!  It  won't  be  long  now;  it 
won't  be  long. 

The  snow  fort  in  the  back-yard  still  sulks  there 
black  and  dirty.  "I  '11  go  when  I  get  good  and 
ready,  and  not  before,"  it  seems  to  say.  Other 
places  the  thinner  snow  has  departed  and  left  be 
hind  it  mud  that  seizes  upon  your  overshoe  with 
an  "Oh,  what 's  your  rush  ?"  In  the  middle  of 
the  road  it  lies  as  smooth  as  pancake-batter.  A 
load  of  building  stone  stalls,  and  people  gather  on 
the  sidewalk  to  tell  the  teamster  quietly  and  un 
ostentatiously  that  he  ought  to  have  had  more 
sense  than  to  pile  it  on  like  that  with  the  roads 
the  way  they  are.  Every  time  the  cruel  whip 
comes  down  and  the  horses  dance  under  it,  the 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  81 

women  peering  out  of  the  front  windows  wince, 
and  cluck  "Tchk!  Ain't  it  terrible  ?  He  ought  to 
be  arrested."  This  way  and  that  the  team  turns 
and  tugs,  but  all  in  vain.  Somebody  puts  on  his 
rubber  boots  and  wades  out  to  help,  fearing  not 
the  muddy  spokes.  Yo  hee!  Yo  hee!  No  use.  He 
talks  it  over  with  the  teamster.  You  can  hear  him 
say:  "Well,  suit  yourself.  If  you  want  to  stay  here 
all  night." 

And  then  the  women  exult:  "Goody!  Goody! 
Serves  him  right.  Now  he  has  to  take  off  some  of 
the  stone.  Lazy  man's  load!" 

The  mother  of  children  flies  to  the  back-door 
when  school  lets  out.  "Don't  you  come  in  here 
with  all  that  mud!"  she  squalls  excitedly.  "Look 
at  you!  A  peck  o'  dirt  on  each  foot.  Right  in  my 
nice  clean  kitchen  that  I  just  scrubbed.  Go  'long 
now  and  clean  your  shoes.  Go  'long,  I  tell  you. 
Slave  and  slave  for  you  and  that 's  all  the  thanks 
I  get.  You  'd  keep  the  place  looking  like  a  hog 
pen,  if  I  was  n't  at  you  all  the  time.  I  never 
saw  such  young  ones  since  the  day  I  was 
made.  Never.  Whoopin'  and  hollerin'  and 
trackin'  in  and  out.  It 's  enough  to  drive  a  body 
crazy." 


82  BACK  HOME 

(Don't  you  care.  It 's  just  her  talk.  If  it  is  n't 
one  thing  it's  another,  cleaning  your  shoes,  or 
combing  your  hair,  or  brushing  your  clothes,  or 
using  your  handkerchief,  or  shutting  the  door 
softly,  or  holding  your  spoon  with  your  fingers 
and  not  in  your  fist,  or  keeping  your  finger  out  of 
your  glass  when  you  drink  —  something  the 
whole  blessed  time.  Forever  and  eternally  pick 
ing  at  a  fellow  about  something.  And  saying  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  so  many  times.  That  's 
the  worst  of  it!) 

Pap  and  mother  read  over  the  seed  cat 
alogues,  all  about  "warm,  light  soils,"  and 
"hardy  annuals,"  and  "sow  in  drills  four 
inches  apart.  "  It  kind  of  hurries  things 
along  when  you  do  that.  In  the  south  win 
dow  of  the  kitchen  is  a  box  full  of  black  dirt 
in  which  —  will  you  look  out  what  you  're 
doing  ?  Little  more  and  you  'd  have  upset 
it.  There  are  tomato  seeds  in  that,  I  '11  have  you 
know.  Oh,  yes,  government  seeds.  Somebody 
sends  'em,  I  don't  know  who.  Congressman, 
I  guess,  whoever  he  is.  I  don't  pretend  to 
keep  track  of  'em.  And  say.  When  was  this 
watered  last  ?  There  it  is.  Unless  I  stand 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  83 

over  you  every  minute  —  My  land!  If  there  's 
anything  done  about  this  house  /  've  got  to 
do  it. 

Between  the  days  when  it  can't  make  up  its 
mind  whether  to  snow  or  to  rain,  and  tries  to  do 
both  at  once,  comes  a  day  when  it  is  warm  enough 
(almost)  to  go  without  an  overcoat.  The  Sunday 
following  you  can  hardly  hear  what  the  preacher 
has  to  say  for  the  whooping  and  barking. 
The  choir  members  have  cough  drops  in  their 
cheeks  when  they  stand  up  to  sing,  and  every 
body  stops  in  at  the  drug  store  with:  "Say, 
Doc,  what 's  good  for  a  cold  ?" 

Eggs  have  come  down.  Yesterday  they  were 
nine  for  a  quarter;  to-day  they  're  ten.  Gilder- 
sleeve  wants  a  dollar  for  a  setting  of  eggs,  but 
he  '11  let  you  have  the  same  number  of  eggs  for 
thirty  cents  if  you  '11  wait  till  he  can  run  a  needle 
into  each  one.  So  afraid  you  '11  raise  chickens  of 
your  own. 

Excited  groups  gather  about  rude  circles 
scratched  in  the  mud,  and  there  is  talk  of 
"pureys,"  and  "reals,"  and  "aggies,"  and 
"commies,"  and  "fen  dubs!"  There  is  a  rich 
click  about  the  bulging  pockets  of  the  boys,  and 


84  BACK   HOME 

every  so  often  in  school  time  something  drops  on 
the  floor  and  rolls  noisily  across  the  room.  When 
Miss  Daniels  asks:  "Who  did  that  ?"  the  boys  all 
look  so  astonished.  Who  did  what,  pray  tell  ? 
And  when  she  picks  up  a  marble  and  inquires: 
"Whose  is  this  ?"  nobody  can  possibly  imagine 
whose  it  might  be,  least  of  all  the  boy  whose  most 
highly-prized  shooter  it  is.  At  this  season  of  the 
year,  too,  there  is  much  serious  talk  as  to  the  ex 
ceeding  sinfulness  of  "playing  for  keeps."  The 
little  boys,  in  whose  thumbs  lingers  the  weak 
ness  of  the  arboreal  ape,  their  ancestor,  and  who 
"poke"  their  marbles,  drink  in  eagerly  the  doc 
trine  that  when  you  win  a  marble  you  ought  to 
give  it  back,  but  the  hard-eyed  fellows,  who  can 
plunk  it  every  time,  sit  there  and  let  it  go 
in  one  ear  and  out  the  other,  there  being 
a  hole  drilled  through  expressly  for  the  purpose. 
What  ?  Give  up  the  rewards  of  skill  ?  Ah,  g'wan! 

The  girls,  even  to  those  who  have  begun  to  turn 
their  hair  up  under,  are  turning  the  rope  and  dis 
mally  chanting:  "All  in  together,  pigs  in  the 
meadow,  nineteen  twenty,  leave  the  rope  empty," 
or  whatever  the  rune  is. 

It  won't  be  long  now.  It  won't  be  long. 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  85 

61  For  lo,  the  winter  is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone; 
the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth;  the  time  of  the  singing 
of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in 
our  land;  the  fig-tree  putteth  forth  her  green  figs,  and 
the  vines,  with  the  tender  grape  give  a  good  smell.  Arise 
my  love,  my  fair  one  and  come  away." 

THE  SONG  OF  SOLOMON. 

Out  in  the  woods  the  leaves  that  rustled  so 
bravely  when  we  shuffled  our  feet  through  them 
last  fall  are  sodden  and  matted.  It  is  warm  in  the 
woods,  for  the  sun  strikes  down  through  the  bare 
branches,  and  the  cold  wind  is  fended  off.  The 
fleshy  lances  of  the  spring  beauty  have  stabbed 
upward  through  the  mulch,  and  a  tiny  cup,  deli 
cately  veined  with  pink,  hangs  its  head  bash 
fully.  Anemones  on  brown  wire  stems  aspire 
without  a  leaf,  and  in  moist  patches  are  May 
pinks,  the  trailing  arbutus  of  the  grown-ups.  As 
we  carry  home  a  bunch,  the  heads  all  lopping 
every  way  like  the  heads  of  strangled  babies,  we 
can  almost  hear  behind  us  in  the  echoing  forests 
a  long,  heart-broken  moan,  as  of  Rachel  mourn 
ing  for  her  children,  and  will  not  be  comforted 
because  they  are  not.  The  wild  flowers  don't  look 


86  BACK  HOME 

so  pretty  in  the  tin  cups  of  water  as  they  did  back 
in  the  woods.  There  is  something  cheap  and 
common  about  them.  Throw  'em  out.  The  poor 
plants  that  planned  through  all  the  ages  how  to 
attract  the  first  smart  insects  of  the  season,  and 
trick  them  into  setting  the  seeds  for  next  years' 
flowers  did  not  reckon  that  these  very  means 
whereby  they  hoped  to  rear  a  family  would  prove 
their  undoing  at  the  hands  of  those  who  plume 
themselves  a  little  on  their  refinement,  they  "  are 
so  fond  of  flowers. " 

Old  Winter  hates  to  give  up  that  he  is  beaten. 
It 's  a  funny  thing,  but  when  you  hear  a  person 
sing,  "Good-a-by,  Summer,  good-a-by,  good-a- 
by,"  you  always  feel  kind  of  sad  and  sorry.  It 's 
going,  the  time  of  year  when  you  can  stay  out  of 
doors  most  of  the  time,  when  you  can  go  in  swim 
ming,  and  the  Sunday-school  picnic,  and  the  cir 
cus,  and  play  base-ball  and  camp  out,  and  there 's 
no  school,  and  everything  nice,  and  watermelons, 
and  all  like  that.  Good-by,  good-by,  and  you  be 
gin  to  sniff  a  little.  The  departure  of  summer  is 
dignified  and  even  splendid, but  the  earth  looks  so 
sordid  and  draggle-trailed  when  winter  goes,  that 
onions  could  not  bring  a  tear.  Old  winter  likes  to 


THE   REVOLVING  YEAR  87 

tease.  "Aha!  You  thought  I  was  gone,  did  you  ? 
Not  yet,  my  child,  not  yet!"  And  he  sends  us 
huckleberry-colored  clouds  from  the  northwest, 
from  which  snow-flakes  big  as  copper  cents 
solemnly  waggle  down,  as  if  they  really  expected 
the  schoolboy  to  shout :  "  It  snows !  Hurrah ! "  and 
makes  his  shout  heard  through  parlor  and  hall. 
But  they  only  leave  a  few  dark  freckles  on  the 
garden  beds.  Alas,  yes!  There  is  no  light  without 
its  shadow,  no  joy  without  its  sorrow  tagging 
after.  It  is  n't  all  marbles  and  play  in  the 
gladsome  springtide.  Bub  has  not  only  to 
spade  up  the  garden  —  there  is  some  sense 
in  that  —  but  he  has  to  dig  up  the  flower 
beds,  and  help  his  mother  set  out  her  footy, 
trifling  plants. 

The  robins  have  come  back,  our  robins  that 
nest  each  spring  in  the  old  seek-no-further.  To 
the  boy  grunting  over  the  spading-fork  presents 
himself  Cock  Robin.  "How  about  it  ?  Hey  ?  All 
right  ?  Hey  ?"  he  seems  to  ask,  cocking  his  head, 
and  flipping  out  the  curt  inquiries  with  tail-jerks. 
Glad  of  any  excuse  to  stop  work,  the  boy  stands 
statue-still,  while  Mr.  Robin  drags  from  the  up 
turned  clods  the  long,  elastic  fish-worms,  and 


88  BACK  HOME 

then  with  a  brief  "Chip!"  flashes  out  of  sight. 
Be  right  still  now.  Don't  move.  Here  he  comes 
again,  and  his  wife  with  him.  They  fly  down,  he 
all  eager  and  alert  to  wait  upon  her,  she  whining 
and  scolding.  She  does  n't  think  it 's  much  of  a 
place  for  worms.  And  there  's  that  boy  yonder. 
He  's  up  to  some  devilment  or  other,  she  just 
knows.  She  ought  n't  to  have  come  away  and  left 
those  eggs.  They  '11  get  cold  now,  she  just  knows 
they  will.  Anything  might  happen  to  them  when 
she  's  away,  and  then  he  '11  be  to  blame,  for  he 
coaxed  her.  He  knows  she  told  him  she  did  n't 
want  to  come.  But  he  would  have  it.  For  half  a 
cent  she  'd  go  back  right  now.  And,  Heavens 
above!  Is  he  going  to  be  all  day  picking  up  a  few 
little  worms  ? 

She  cannot  finish  her  sentences  for  her  gulps, 
for  he  is  tamping  down  in  her  insides  the  reluct 
ant  angle-worms  that  do  not  want  to  die,  two  or 
three  writhing  in  his  bill  at  once,  until  he  looks 
like  Jove's  eagle  with  its  mouth  full  of  thunder 
bolts.  And  all  the  time  he  is  chip-chipping  and 
flirting  his  tail,  and  saying:  "How's  that?  All 
right  ?  Hey  ?  Here  's  another.  How  's  that  ?  All 
right  ?  Hey  ?  Open  now.  Like  that  ?  Here  's  one. 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  89 

Oh,  a  beaut!  Here  's  two  fat  ones  ?  Great  ?  Hey  ? 
Here  y'  go.  Touch  the  spot  ?  Hey  ?  More  ?  Sure 
Mike.  Lots  of  'em.  Wide  now.  Boss.  Hey  ?  Wait 
a  second  —  yes,  honey.  In  a  second.  ...  I 
got  him.  Here  's  the  kind  you  like.  Oh,  yes,  do. 
Do  take  one  more.  Oh,  you  better." 

"  D'  ye  think  I  'm  made  o'  rubber  ? "  she  snaps 
at  him.  "I  know  I'll  have  indigestion,  and 
you'll  be  to  bla  —  Mercy  land!  Them  eggs!" 
and  she  gathers  up  her  skirts  and  flits.  He  es 
corts  her  gallantly,  but  returns  to  pick  a  few  for 
himself,  and  to  cock  his  head  knowingly  at  the 
boy,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Man  of  family,  by  Ned. 
Or  —  or  soon  will  be.  Oh,  yes,  any  minute  now, 
any  minute." 

And  if  I  remember  rightly,  he  even  winks  at 
the  boy  with  a  wink  whose  full  significance  the 
boy  does  not  learn  till  many  years  after  when 
it  dawns  upon  him  that  it  meant:  "You  got 
to  make  allowances  for  'em.  Especially  at  such  a 
time.  All  upset,  you  know,  and  worried.  Oh,  yes. 
You  got  to;  you  got  to  make  allowances  for  'em. " 

Day  by  day  the  air  grows  balmier  and  softer 
on  the  cheek.  Out  in  the  garden,  ranks  of  yel 
low-green  pikes  stand  stiffly  at "  Present.  .  .  . 


9o  BACK  HOME 

Hump!"  and  rosettes  of  the  same  color  crumple 
through  the  warm  soil,  unconsciously  preparing 
for  a  soul  tragedy.  For  an  evening  will  come  when 
a  covered  dish  will  be  upon  the  supper-table,  and 
when  the  cover  is  taken  off,  a  subtle  fragrance  will 
betray,  if  the  sense  of  sight  do  not,  that  the 
chopped-up  lettuces  and  onions  are  in  a  marsh  of 
cider  vinegar,  demanding  to  be  eaten.  And  your 
big  sister  will  squall  out  in  comic  distress:  "Oh, 
ma!  You  are  too  mean  for  anything!  Why  did  you 
have  'em  to-night  ?  I  told  you  Mr.  Dellabaugh  was 
going  to  call,  and  you  know  how  I  love  spring 
onions!  Well,  I  don't  care.  I  'm  just  going  to, 
anyhow." 

Things  come  with  such  a  rush  now,  it  is 
hard  to  tell  what  happens  in  its  proper  order. 
The  apple-trees  blossom  out  like  pop-corn  over 
the  hot  coals.  The  Japan  quince  repeats  its  far- 
famed  imitation  of  the  Burning  Bush  of  Moses; 
the  flowering  currants  are  strung  with  knobs  of 
vivid  yellow  fringe;  the  dead  grass  from  the  front 
yard,  the  sticks  and  stalks  and  old  tomato  vines, 
the  bits  of  rag  and  the  old  bones  that  Guess  has 
gnawed  upon  are  burning  in  the  alley,  and  the 
tormented  smoke  is  darting  this  way  and  that, 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  91 

trying  to  get  out  from  under  the  wind  that  seeks 
to  flatten  it  to  the  ground.  All  this  is  spring,  and 
and  yet  it  is  n't.  The  word  is  not  yet  spoken  that 
sets  us  free  to  live  the  outdoor  life;  we  are  yet 
prisoners  and  captives  of  the  house. 

But,  one  day  in  school,  the  heat  that  yesterday 
was  nice  and  cozy  becomes  too  dry  and  baking 
for  endurance.  The  young  ones  come  in  from 
recess  red,  not  with  the  brilliant  glow  of  winter, 
but  a  sort  of  scalded  red.  They  juke  their  heads 
forward  to  escape  their  collars'  moist  embrace; 
they  reach  their  hands  back  of  them  to  pull 
their  clinging  winter  underwear  away.  They 
fan  themselves  with  joggerfies,  and  pufF  out: 
"Phew!"  and  look  pleadingly  at  the  shut  win 
dows.  One  boy,  bolder  than  his  fellows,  moans 
with  a  suffering  lament:  "Miss  Daniels,  cain't  we 
have  the  windows  open  ?  It 's  awful  hot! "  Fright 
ful  dangers  lurk  in  draughts.  Fresh  air  will  kill 
folks.  So,  not  until  the  afternoon  is  the  prayer 
answered.  Then  the  outer  world,  so  long  ex 
cluded,  enters  once  more  the  school-room  life. 
The  mellifluous  crowing  of  distant  roosters,  the 
rhythmic  creaking  of  a  thirsty  pump,  the  rumble 
of  a  loaded  wagon,  the  clinking  of  hammers  at 


92  BACK  HOME 

the  blacksmith  shop,  the  whistle  of  No.  3  away 
below  town,  all  blend  together  in  the  soft  spring 
air  into  one  lulling  harmony. 

Winter's  alert  activity  is  gone.  Who  cares  for 
grades  and  standings  now?  The  girls,  that  al 
ways  are  so  smart,  gape  lazily,  and  stare  at  va 
cancy  wishing.  .  .  .  They  don't  know  what 
they  wish,  but  if  He  had  a  lot  of  money,  why, 
then  they  could  help  the  poor,  and  all  like  that, 
and  have  a  new  dress  every  day* 

James  Sackett  —  his  real  name  is  Jim  Bag, 
but  teacher  calls  him  James  Sackett  —  has  his 
face  set  toward:  "A  farmer  sold  16  2-3  bu.  wheat 
for  66  7-8  c.  per  bu.;  19  2-9  bu.  oats  for,"  etc., 
etc.,  but  his  soul  is  far  awayin  Cummins's  woods, 
where  there  is  a  robbers'  cave  that  he,  and  Chuck 
Higgins,  and  Bunt  Rogers,  and  Turkey-egg  Mc- 
Laughlin  are  going  to  dig  Saturday  afternoons 
when  the  chores  are  done.  They  are  going  to  — 
Here  Miss  Daniels  should  slip  up  behind  him 
and  snap  his  ear,  but  she,  too,  is  far  away  in 
spirit.  Her  beau  is  coming  after  supper  to  take 
her  buggy-riding.  She  wonders.  .  .  .  She 
wonders.  .  .  .  Will  she  have  to  teach  again 
next  fall  ?  She  wonders.  .  .  . 


THE  REVOLVING  YEAR  93 

Wait.  Wait  but  a  moment.  A  subtle  change  is 
coming. 

The  rim  of  the  revolving  year  has  a  brighter 
and  a  darker  half,  a  joyous  and  a  somber  half. 
Autumnal  splendors  cannot  cheer  the  melan 
choly  that  we  feel  when  summer  goes  from  us, 
but  when  summer  comes  again  the  heart  leaps 
up  in  glee  to  meet  it.  Wait  but  a  moment  now. 
Wait. 

The  distant  woodland  swims  in  an  amethyst 
ine  haze.  A  long  and  fluting  note,  honey-sweet  as 
it  were  blown  upon  a  bottle,  comes  to  us  from  far. 
It  is  the  turtle-dove.  The  blood  beats  in  our  ears. 
Arise,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away. 

So  gentle  it  can  scarce  be  felt,  a  waft  of  air 
blows  over  us,  the  first  sweet  breath  of  summer. 
A  veil  of  faint  and  subtle  perfume  drifts  around 
us.  The  vines  with  the  tender  grape  give  a  good 
smell.  And  evermore  as  its  enchantment  is  cast 
about  us  we  are  as  once  we  were  when  first  we 
came  beneath  its  spell;  we  are  by  the  smoke 
house  at  the  old  home  olace;  we  stand  in  shoes 
whose  copper  toes  wink  and  glitter  in  the  sun 
light,  a  gingham  apron  sways  in  the  soft  breeze, 
and  on  the  green,  upspringing  turf  dances  the 


94  BACK   HOME 

shadow  of  a  tasseled  cap.  Life  was  all  before  us 
then.  Please  God,  it  is  not  all  behind  us  now. 
Please  God,  our  best  and  wisest  days  are  yet  to 
come  —  the  days  when  we  shall  do  the  work  that 
is  worthy  of  us.  Dear  one,  mother  of  my  children 
here  and  Yonder  —  and  Yonder  —  the  best  and 
wisest  days  are  yet  to  come.  Arise,  my  love,  my 
fair  one,  and  come  away. 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE 

IT  is  agreed  by  all,  I  think,  that  the  two  hap 
piest  periods  in  a  man's  life  are  his  boyhood 
and  about  ten  years  from  now.  We  are  ex 
actly  in  the  position  described  in  the  hymn : 

"Lo  !  On  a  narrow  neck  of  land 
"Twixt  two  unbounded  seas  we  stand 
And  cast  a  wishful  eye."4 

If  I  remember  right,  the  hymn  went  to  the 
tune  of  "Ariel,"  and  I  can  see  John  Snodgrass, 
the  precentor,  sneaking  a  furtive  C  from  his 
pitch-pipe,  finding  E  flat  and  then  sol,  and  stand 
ing  up  to  lead  the  singing,  paddling  the  air 
gently  with:  Down,  left,  sing.  Well,  no  matter 
about  that  now.  What  I  am  trying  to  get  at,  is 
that  we  have  all  a  lost  Eden  in  the  past  and  a 

*  [  I  am  told,  on  good  authority,  that  this  last  line  of  the  three  belongs  to 
another  hymn.  As  it  is  just  what  I  want  to  say,  I  'm  going  to  let  it  stand  as 
it  is.] 

95 


96  BACK  HOME 

Paradise  Regained  in  the  future.  'Twixt  two  un 
bounded  seas  of  happiness  we  stand  on  the  nar 
row  and  arid  sand-spit  of  the  present  and  cast  a 
wishful  eye.  In  hot  weather  particularly  the  wish 
ful  eye,  when  directed  toward  the  lost  Eden  of 
boyhood,  lights  on  and  lingers  near  the  Old 
Swimming-hole. 

I  suppose  boys  do  grow  up  into  a  reasonable 
enjoyment  of  their  faculties  in  big  seaside  cities 
and  on  inland  farms  where  there  is  no  accessible 
body  of  water  larger  than  a  wash-tub,  but  I  pre 
fer  to  believe  that  the  majority  of  our  adult  male 
population  in  youth  went  in  swimming  in  the  river 
up  above  the  dam,  where  the  big  sycamore 
spread  out  its  roots  a-purpose  for  them  to  climb 
out  on  without  muddying  their  feet.  Some,  I  sup 
pose,  went  in  at  the  Copperas  Banks  below  town, 
where  the  current  had  dug  a  hole  that  was  "over 
head  and  hands,"  but  that  was  pretty  far  and  al 
most  too  handy  for  the  boys  from  across  the 
tracks. 

The  wash-tub  fellows  will  have  to  be  left  out  of 
it  entirely.  It  was  an  inferior,  low-grade  Eden 
they  had  anyhow,  and  if  they  lost  it,  why,  they  're 
not  out  very  much  that  I  can  see.  And  I  rather 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  97 

pity  the  boys  that  lived  by  the  sea.  They  had  a 
good  time  in  their  way,  I  suppose,  with  sail 
boats  and  things,  but  the  ocean  is  a  poor  excuse 
for  a  swimming-hole.  They  say  salt-water  is 
easier  to  swim  in;  kind  of  bears  you  up  more. 
Maybe  so,  but  I  never  could  see  it;  and  even  so, 
if  it  does,  that  slight  advantage  is  more  than  made 
up  for  by  the  manifold  disadvantages  entailed. 
First  place,  there's  the  tide  to  figure  on.  If  it  was 
high  tide  last  Wednesday  at  half-past  ten  in 
the  morning,  what  time  will  it  be  high  tide  to 
day  ?  A  boy  can't  always  go  when  he  wants  to, 
and  it  is  no  fun  to  trudge  away  down  to  the  beach 
only  to  find  half  a  mile  of  soft,  gawmy  mud  be 
tween  him  and  the  water.  And  he  can't  go  in 
wherever  it  is  deep  enough  and  nobody  lives  near. 
People  own  the  beach  away  out  under  water,  and 
where  he  is  allowed  to  go  in  may  be  a  perfect  sub 
marine  jungle  of  eel-grass  or  bottomed  with  mil 
lions  of  razor-edged  barnacles  that  rip  the  soles 
of  his  feet  into  bleeding  rags.  Then,  too,  when 
one  swims,  more  or  less  water  gets  into  one's 
nose  and  mouth.  River-water  may  not  be  ex 
actly  what  a  fastidious  person  would  choose  to 
drink  habitually,  but  there  is  this  in  its  favor  as 


98  BACK  HOME 

compared  with  sea-water:  it  will  stay  down  after 
it  is  swallowed;  also,  it  does  n't  gum  up  your 
hair;  also,  if  you  want  to  take  a  cake  of  soap  with 
you,  all  you  have  to  look  out  for  is  that  you  don't 
lose  the  soap.  Nobody  tries  to  use  toilet  soap  in 
sea-water  more  than  once. 

And  surf-bathing!  If  there  is  a  bigger  swindle 
than  surf-bathing,  the  United  States  Postal  au 
thorities  have  n't  heard  of  it  yet.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  the  women.  They  can  hang  on  to  the  ropes 
and  squeal  at  the  big  waves  and  have  a  per 
fectly  lovely  time.  Some  of  the  really  daring  ones 
crouch  down  till  they  actually  get  their  shoulder- 
blades  wet.  You  have  to  see  that  for  yourself  to 
believe  it,  but  it  is  as  true  as  I  am  sitting  here. 
They  do  so  —  some  of  them.  But  good  land! 
There  's  no  swimming  in  surf-bathing,  no  fun  for 
a  man.  The  water  is  all  bouncing  up  and  down. 
One  second  it  is  over  head  and  hands,  and  the 
next  second  it  is  about  to  your  knees,  with  a  ma 
licious  undertow  tickling  your  feet  and  tugging 
at  your  ankles,  and  growling:  "Aw,  you  think 
you  're  some,  don't  you  ?  Yes.  Well,  for  half  a 
cent  I  'd  take  you  out  and  drown  you. "  And  I 
don't  like  the  looks  of  that  boat  patrolling  up  and 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  99 

down  between  the  ropes  and  the  raft.  It  is  too 
suggestive,  too  like  the  skeleton  at  the  banquet, 
too  blunt  a  reminder  that  maybe  what  the  un 
dertow  growls  is  not  all  a  bluff. 

Another  drawback  to  the  ocean  as  a  swim 
ming-hole  is  that  the  distances  are  all  wrong.  If 
you  want  to  go  to  the  other  side  of  the  "  crick  " 
you  must  take  a  steamboat.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  bundling  up  your  clothes  and  holding 
them  out  of  water  with  one  hand  while  you 
swim  with  the  other,  perhaps  dropping  your 
knife  or  necktie  in  transit.  I  have  never  been  on 
the  other  side  of  the  "crick"  even  on  a  steam 
boat,  but  I  am  pretty  sure  that  there  are  no  yel 
low-hammers'  nests  over  there  or  watermelon 
patches.  There  were  above  the  dam.  At  the  sea 
side  they  give  you  as  an  objective  point  a  raft, 
anchored  at  what  seems  only  a  little  distance 
from  where  it  gets  deep  enough  to  swim  in,  but 
which  turns  out  to  be  a  mighty  far  ways  when  the 
water  bounces  so.  When  you  get  there,  blowing 
like  a  quarter-horse  and  weighing  nine  tons  as 
you  lift  yourself  out,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  let 
your  feet  hang  over  while  you  get  rested  enough 
to  swim  back.  It  was  n't  like  that  above  the  dam. 


ioo  BACK  HOME 

I  tell  you  the  ocean  is  altogether  too  big.  Some 
profess  to  admire  it  on  that  account,  but  it  is  my 
belief  that  they  do  it  to  be  in  style.  I  admit  that 
on  a  bright,  blowy  day,  when  you  can  sit  and 
watch  the  shining  sails  far  out  on  the  horizon's 
rim,  it  does  look  right  nice,  but  I  account  for  it  in 
this  way:  it  puts  you  in  mind  of  some  of  these  ex 
pensive  oil  paintings,  and  that  makes  you  think  it 
is  kind  of  high  class.  And  another  thing:  It  recalls 
the  picture  in  the  joggerfy  that  proved  the  earth 
was  round  because  the  hull  of  a  ship  disappears 
before  the  sails,  as  it  would  if  the  ship  was  going 
over  a  hill.  You  sweep  your  eye  along  where  the 
sky  and  water  meet,  and  it  seems  you  can  note 
the  curvature  of  the  earth.  Maybe  it  is  that,  and 
maybe  it  is  all  in  your  own  eye.  I  am  not  saying. 

There  are  good  points,  too,  about  the  sea  on  a 
clear  night  when  the  moon  is  full;  or  when  there 
is  no  moon,  and  the  phosphorescence  in  the 
water  shows,  as  if  mermaids'  children  were 
playing  with  blue-tipped  matches.  I  like  to  see  it 
when  a  gale  is  blowing,  and  the  white  caps  race. 
Yes,  and  when  it  is  a  flat  calm,  with  here  and 
there  a  tiny  cat's-paw  crinkling  the  water  into 
gray-green  crepe.  And  also  when  —  but  there!  it 


THE  SWIMMING-HOtE,  /,\  \^\  ^ibj' 

is  no  use  cataloguing  all  kinds  of  weather  and  all 
hours  of  the  day  and  night.  What  I  don't  ap 
prove  of  in  the  ocean  is  its  everlasting  bigness.  It 
is  so  discouraging.  It  makes  a  body  seem  so  no- 
account  and  insignificant.  You  come  away  feel 
ing  meaner  than  a  sheep-killing  dog.  "Oh, 
what 's  the  use  ?"  you  say  to  yourself.  "What 's 
the  use  of  my  breaking  my  neck  to  do  anything 
or  be  anybody  ?  Before  I  was  born  —  before  His 
tory  began  —  before  any  foot  of  being  that  could 
be  called  a  man  trod  these  sands,  the  waves  beat 
thus  the  pulse  of  time.  When  I  am  gone  —  when 
all  that  man  has  made,  that  seems  so  firm  and 
everlasting,  shall  have  crumbled  into  the  earth, 
whence  it  sprang,  this  wave,  so  momentary  and 
so  eternal,  shall  still  surge  up  the  slanting  beach, 
and  trail  its  lacy  mantle  in  retreat.  .  .  .  O, 
spare  me  a  little,  that  I  may  recover  my  strength : 
before  I  go  hence,  and  be  no  more  seen. " 

And  that 's  no  way  for  a  man  to  feel.  He 
ought  to  be  confident  and  sure  of  himself.  If  he 
has  n't  yet  done  all  that  he  laid  out  to  do,  he 
should  feel  that  it  is  in  him  to  do  it,  and  that  he 
will  before  the  time  comes  for  him  to  go,  and 
that  when  it  is  done  it  shall  be  worth  while. 


io2  '::  ,  J:  \^.:      BACK  HOME 

It  is  the  ocean's  everlasting  bigness  that  makes 
it  so  cold  to  swim  in.  At  the  seaside  bathing  pavil 
ions  they  have  a  blackboard  whereon  they  chalk 
up  "  70°"  or  "  72°"  or  whatever  they  think  folks 
will  like.  They  never  say  in  so  many  words  that  a 
man  went  down  into  the  water  and  held  a  ther 
mometer  in  it  long  enough  to  get  the  true  tem 
perature,  but  they  lead  you  to  believe  it.  All  I 
have  to  say  is  that  they  must  have  very  optimis 
tic  thermometers.  I  just  wish  some  of  these  poor 
little  seashore  boys  could  have  a  chance  to  try  the 
Old  Swimming-hole  up  above  the  dam.  Certainly 
along  about  early  going-barefoot  time  the  water 
is  a  little  cool,  but  you  take  it  in  the  middle  of 
August  —  ah,  I  tell  you!  When  you  come  out  of 
the  water  then  you  don't  have  to  run  up  and 
down  to  get  your  blood  in  circulation  or  pile  the 
warm  sand  on  yourself  or  hunt  for  the  steam- 
room.  Only  thing  is,  if  you  stay  in  all  day,  as  you 
want  to,  it  thins  your  blood,  and  you  get  the 
"fever  V  ager. "  But  you  can  stay  in  as  long  as 
you  want  to,  that 's  the  point,  without  your  lips 
turning  the  color  of  a  chicken's  gizzard. 

And  there's  this  about  theOld Swimming-hole, 
or  there  was  in  my  day:  There  were  no  women 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  103 

and  girls  fussing  around  and  squalling :  "  Now, 
you  stop  splashin'  water  on  me  !  Quit  it  now  ! 
Quee-yut  ! "  I  don't  think  it  looks  right  for  wo 
men  folks  to  have  anything  to  do  with  water  in 
large  quantities.  On  a  sail-boat,  now,  they  are  the 
very  —  but  perhaps  we  had  better  not  go  into 
that.  At  a  picnic,  indeed,  they  used  to  take  off 
their  shoes  and  stockings  and  paddle  their  feet  in 
the  water,  but  that  was  as  much  as  ever  they  did. 
They  never  thought  of  going  in  swimming.  Even 
at  the  seashore,  now  when  Woman  is  so  emanci 
pated,  they  go  "bathing,"  not  swimming.  I 
don't  like  to  see  a  woman  swim  any  more  than  I 
like  to  see  a  woman  smoke  a  cigar.  And  for  the 
same  reason.  It  is  more  fun  than  she  is  entitled  to. 
A  woman's  place  is  home  minding  the  baby,  and 
cooking  the  meals.  Nothing  would  do  her  but  she 
had  to  be  born  a  woman.  She  had  the  same  lib 
erty  of  choice  that  we  men  had.  Very  well,  I  say, 
let  her  take  the  consequences. 

It  is  only  natural,  then,  that  she  should  refuse 
to  let  her  boys  go  swimming.  She  pays  off  her 
grudge  that  way.  Just  because  she  can't  go 
herself  she  is  bound  that  they  shan't  either. 
She  says  they  will  get  drowned,  but  we  know 


104  BACK  HOME 

about  that.  It  is  only  an  excuse  to  keep  them 
from  having  a  little  fun.  She  has  to  say  some 
thing.  They  won't  get  drowned.  Why,  the  idea! 
They  have  n't  the  least  intention  of  any  such 
thing. 

"Well,  but  Robbie,  supposing  you  couldn't 
help  yourself?" 

"How  could  n't  help  myself?" 

"Why,  get  the  cramps.  Suppose  you  got  the 
cramps,  then  what  ?" 

"Aw,  pshaw!  Cramps  nothin'l  They  hain't  no 
sich  of  a  thing.  And,  anyhow,  if  I  did  get  'em, 
I  *d  jist  kick  'em  right  out.  This  way. " 

"Now,  Robbie,  you  know  you  did  have  a  ter 
rible  cramp  in  your  foot  just  only  the  other  night. 
Don't  you  remember  ?" 

"Aw,  that!  That  ain't  nothin'.  That  ain't  the 
cramps  that  drownds  people.  Did  n't  I  tell  you 
I  'd  jist  kick  it  right  out  ?  That 's  what  they  all 
do  when  they  git  the  cramps.  But  they  don't  no 
body  git  'em  now  no  more. " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  in  the  water  and  get 
drowned.  You  know  you  can't  swim." 

This  is  too  much.  Oh,  this  is  rank  injustice! 
Worse  yet,  it  is  bad  logic. 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  105 

"  How  'm  I  ever  goin'  to  learn  if  you  don't  let 
me  go  to  learn  ? " 

"Well,  you  can't  go,  and  that 's  the  end  of  it. " 

Is  n't  that  just  like  a  woman  ?  Perfectly  un 
reasonable!  Dear!  dear! 

"Now,  Ma,  listen  here.  S'posin'  we  was  all 
goin'  some  place  on  a  steamboat,  me  and  you 
and  Pa  and  the  baby  and  all  of  us,  and  —  ' 

"That  won't  ever  happen,  I  guess." 

"CAWT  rOU  LET  ME  TELL  YOU?  And 
s'posin'  the  boat  was  to  sink,  and  I  could  swim 
and  save  you  from  drown  —  " 

"You  're  not  going  swimming,  and  that 's  all 
there  is  about  it. " 

"  Other  boys'  mas  lets  them  go.  I  don't  see  why 
I  can't  go." 

No  answer. 

"Ma,  won't  you  let  me  go  ?  I  won't  get  drown 
ed,  hope  to  die  if  I  do.  Ma,  won't  you  let  me  go  ? 
Ma !  —  Ma-2i !  —  MAW-ah ! " 

"Stop  yelling  at  me  that  way.  Good  land! 
Do  you  think  I  'm  deaf?" 

"Won't  you  let  me  go  ?  Please,  won't  you  let—" 

"No,  I  won't.  I  told  you  I  would  n't,  and  I 
mean  it.  You  might  as  well  make  up  your  mind 


106  BACK  HOME 

to  stay  at  home,  for  you  're  —  not  —  going. 
Hush  up  now.  This  instant,  sir!  Robbie,  do  you 
hear  me?  Stop  crying.  Great  baby!  I'd  be 
ashamed  to  cry  that  way,  as  big  as  you  are!" 

Mean  old  Ma!  Guess  she  'd  cry  too  'f  she  could 
see  the  other  kids  that  waited  for  him  to  go  and 
ask  her  —  if  she  could  see  them  moving  off,  tired 
of  waiting.  They  're  'most  up  to  Lincoln 
Avenue. 

"  Oooooooooooo-hoo — hoo  —  hoo  —  hoo-hoo- 
oooooooo-ah!  I  wanna  gow-ooooo. " 

"Did  you  hoe  that  corn  your  father  told  you 
to?" 

"  Oooooooooooo  -  hoo  -  hoo  -  hoo-oooooooo !  I 
wanna  gow-ooooooo. " 

"Robbie!  Did  you  hoe  that  corn  ?" 

The  last  boy,  the  one  with  the  stone-bruise  on 
his  heel,  limps  around  the  corner.  They  have  all 
the  fun.  His  ma  won't  let  him  go  barefoot  be 
cause  it  spreads  his  feet. 

"Robbie!  Answer  me." 

"Mam?" 

"Did  you  hoe  that  corn  your  father  told  you 
to?" 

"Yes  mam." 


Toure    not    going    swimming,   and   that's    all   there    is 
about   it" 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  107 

"All  of  it  ?  Did  you  hoe  all  of  it  ?" 

"  Prett'  near  all  of  it. "  Well  begun  is  half  done. 
One  hill  is  a  good  beginning,  and  half  done  is 
pretty  nearly  all. 

"Go  and  finish  it." 

"I  will  if  you  '11  let  me  go  swimmin'. " 

It  flashes  upon  him  that  even  now  by  running 
he  can  catch  up  with  the  other  fellows.  He  can 
finishing  the  hoeing  when  he  gets  back. 

"  You  '11  do  it  anyhow,  and  you  're  not  going 
swimming.  Now,  that 's  the  end  of  it.  You  march 
out  to  that  garden  this  minute,  or  I  '11  take  a  stick 
to  you.  And  don't  let  me  hear  another  whimper 
out  of  you.  Robbie!  Come  back  here  and  shut 
that  door  properly.  I  shall  tell  your  father  how 
you  have  acted.  I  'd  be  ashamed  —  I  'd  be 
ashamed  to  show  temper  that  way. " 

It  says  for  children  to  obey  their  parents,  but  if 
more  boys  minded  their  mothers  there  would  be 
fewer  able  to  swim.  While  I  shrink  with  horror 
from  even  seeming  to  encourage  dropping  the 
hoe  when  the  sewing-machine  gets  to  going  good, 
by  its  thunderous  spinning  throwing  up  an  im 
pervious  wall  of  sound  to  conceal  retreat  into  the 
back  alley,  across  the  street,  up  the  alley  back  of 


io8  BACK  HOME 

Alexander's,  and  so  on  up  to  Fountain  Avenue 
in  time  to  catch  up  with  the  gang,  still  I  regard 
swimming  as  an  exercise  of  the  extremest  value 
in  the  development  of  the  growing  boy.  It  builds 
up  every  muscle.  It  is  particularly  beneficial  to 
the  lungs.  To  have  a  good  pair  of  lungs  is  the 
same  thing  as  having  a  good  constitution.  It  is 
nice  to  have  a  healthy  boy,  and  it  is  nice  to  have 
an  obedient  boy,  but  if  one  must  choose  which  he 
will  have  —  that 's  a  very  difficult  question.  I 
think  it  should  be  left  to  the  casuists.  Neverthe 
less,  now  is  the  boy's  only  chance  to  grow.  He  will 
have  abundant  opportunities  to  learn  obedience. 
In  the  last  analysis  there  are  two  ways  of  ac 
quiring  the  art  of  swimming,  the  sudden  way  and 
the  slow  way.  I  have  never  personally  known 
anybody  that  learned  in  the  sudden  way,  but  I 
have  heard  enough  about  it  to  describe  it.  It  is 
the  quickest  known  method.  One  day  the  boy  is 
among  the  gibbering  white  monkeys  at  the 
river's  edge,  content  to  splash  in  the  water  that 
comes  but  half  way  to  his  crouching  knees.  The 
next  day  he  swims  with  the  big  boys  as  bold  as 
any  of  them.  In  the  meantime  his  daddy  has 
taken  him  out  in  a  boat,  out  where  it  is  deep  - 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  109 

Oh!  Ain't  it  deep  there?  —  and  thrown  him 
overboard.  The  boat  is  kept  far  enough  away  to 
be  out  of  the  boy  's  reach  and  yet  near  enough  to 
be  right  there  in  case  anything  happens.  (I  like 
that  "in  case  anything  happens."  It  sounds  so 
cheerful.)  It  being  what  Aristotle  defines  as  "a 
ground-hog  case/'  the  boy  learns  to  swim  im 
mediately.  He  has  to. 

It  seems  reasonable  that  he  should.  But  still 
and  all,  I  don't  just  fancy  it.  Once  when  a  badly 
scared  man  grabbed  me  by  the  arms  in  deep 
water  I  had  the  fear  of  drowning  take  hold  of  my 
soul,  and  it  is  n't  a  nice  feeling  at  all.  Somehow 
when  I  hear  folks  praising  up  this  method  of 
teaching  a  child  to  swim,  I  seem  to  hear  the  little 
fellow's  screams  that  he  does  n't  want  to  be 
thrown  into  the  water.  I  can  see  him  clinging  to 
his  father  for  protection,  and  finding  that  heart 
hard  and  unpitying.  I  can  see  his  finger-nails 
whiten  with  his  clutch  on  anything  that  gives  a 
hand-hold.  His  father  strips  off  his  grip,  at  first 
with  boisterous  laughter,  and  then  with  hot  anger 
at  the  little  fool.  He  calls  him  a  cry-baby,  and 
slaps  his  mouth  for  him,  to  stop  his  noise.  The 
little  body  sprawls  in  the  air  and  strikes  with  a 


i  io  BACK   HOME 

loud  splash,  and  the  child's  gargling  cry  is 
strangled  by  the  water  whitened  by  his  mad 
clawings.  I  can  see  his  head  come  up,  his  eyes 
bulging,  and  his  face  distorted  with  the  awful 
fear  that  is  ours  by  the  inheritance  of  ages.  He 
will  sink  and  come  up  again,  not  three  times,  but 
a  hundred  times.  Eventually  he  will  win  safe  to 
shore,  panting  and  trembling,  his  little  heart 
knocking  against  his  ribs,  it  is  true,  but  lord  of 
the  water  from  that  time  forth.  It  is  a  very  fine 
method,  yes  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  well,  if  it 
was  my  boy  I  had  just  as  lief  he  tarried  with  the 
little  white  monkeys  at  the  river's  edge.  Let  him 
squeal  and  crouch  and  splash  and  learn  how  to 
half  drown  the  other  fellow  by  shooting  water  at 
him  with  the  heel  of  his  hand.  Let  him  alone.  He 
will  be  watching  the  others  swim.  He  will  edge 
out  a  little  farther  and  kick  up  his  heels  while 
with  his  hands  he  holds  on  the  ground.  He  will 
edge  out  a  little  farther  still  and  try  to  keep  his 
feet  on  the  bottom  and  swim  with  his  hands.  Be 
patient  in  his  attempt  to  combine  the  two  meth 
ods  of  travel.  He  is  not  the  only  one  that  fears  to 
be  one  thing  or  the  other,  and  regards  a  mixture 
of  both  as  the  safest  way  to  get  along. 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  in 

No,  I  cannot  say  that  I  wholly  approve  of  the 
sudden  method  of  learning  to  swim.  It  has  the 
advantange  of  lumping  all  the  scares  of  a  life 
time  into  one  and  having  it  over  with,  and  yet  I 
don't  suppose  the  scare  of  being  thrown  into  the 
water  by  one's  daddy  is  really  greater  than  being 
ducked  in  mid-stream  by  some  hulking,  cackle- 
voiced  big  boy.  It  seems  greater  though,  I  sup 
pose,  because  a  fellow  cannot  very  well  relieve  his 
feelings  by  throwing  stones  at  his  daddy  and 
bawling:  "Gol-darn  you  anyhow,  you  —  you  — 
big  stuff!  I  '11  get  hunk  with  you,  now  you  see  if  I 
don't!"  Here  would  be  just  the  place  to  make  the 
little  boy  tie  knots  in  the  big  boy's  shirt-sleeves, 
soak  the  knots  in  water,  and  pound  them  between 
stones.  But  that  is  kind  of  common,  I  think. 
They  told  about  it  at  the  swimming-hole  above 
the  dam,  but  nobody  was  mean  enough  to  do  it. 
Maybe  they  did  it  down  at  the  Copperas  Banks 
below  town.  The  boys  from  across  the  tracks 
went  there,  a  race  apart,  whom  we  feared,  and  who 
hated  us,  if  the  legend  chalked  up  on  the  fences: 
"DAMB  THE  PRODESTANCE,"  meant  anything. 

Under  the  slow  method  of  learning  to  swim 
one  had  leisure  to  observe  the  different  fashions 


ii2  BACK  HOME 

—  dog-fashion  and  cow-fashion,  steamboat- 
fashion,  and  such.  The  little  kids  and  beginners 
swam  dog-fashion,  which  on  that  account  was 
considered  contemptible.  The  fellow  was  sneered 
at  that  screwed  up  his  face  as  if  in  a  cloud  of  suf 
focating  dust,  and  fought  the  water  with  noise 
and  fury,  putting  forth  enough  energy  to  carry 
him  a  mile,  and  actually  going  about  two  feet  if 
he  were  headed  down  stream.  Scientific  men  say 
that  the  use  of  the  limbs,  first  on  one  side  and 
then  on  the  other,  is  instinctive  to  all  creatures  of 
the  monkey  tribe.  That  is  the  way  they  do  in  an 
emergency,  since  that  is  the  way  to  scramble  up 
among  the  tree  limbs.  I  know  that  it  is  the  easiest 
way  to  swim,  and  the  least  effective.  When  the 
arms  are  extended  together  in  the  breast  stroke, 
it  is  as  much  superior  to  dog-fashion  as  man 
is  superior  to  the  ape.  I  have  always  thought  that 
to  swim  thus  with  steady  and  deliberate  arm  ac 
tion,  the  water  parting  at  the  chin  and  rising  just 
to  the  root  of  the  underlip,  was  the  most  digni 
fied  and  manly  attitude  the  human  being  could 
put  himself  in.  Cow-fashion  was  a  burlesque  of 
this,  and  the  swimmer  reared  out  of  water  with 
each  stroke,  creating  tidal  waves.  It  was  thought 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  113 

to  be  vastly  comic.  Steamboat-fashion  was  where 
a  fellow  swam  on  his  back,  keeping  his  body 
up  by  a  gentle,  secret  paddling  motion  with  his 
hands,  while  with  his  feet  he  lashed  the  water  into 
foam,  like  some  river  stern-wheeler.  If  he  could 
cry : "  Hoo !  hoo !  hoo ! "  in  hoarse  falsetto  to  mimic 
the  whistle,  it  was  an  added  charm. 

It  was  a  red-headed  boy  from  across  the  tracks 
on  his  good  behavior  at  the  swimming-hole  above 
the  dam  that  I  first  saw  swim  hand-over-hand, 
or  "sailor-fashion"  as  we  called  it,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  I  know  not.  I  can  hear  now  the  crisp, 
staccato  little  smack  his  hand  gave  the  water  as 
he  reached  forward. 

It  has  ever  since  been  my  envy  and  despair.  It 
is  so  knowing,  so  "  sporty. "  I  class  it  with  being 
able  to  wear  a  pink-barred  shirt  front  with  a 
diamond-cluster  pin  in  it;  with  having  my  clothes 
so  nobby  and  stylish  that  one  thread  more  of 
modishness  would  be  beyond  the  human  power 
to  endure;  with  being  genuinely  fond  of  horse- 
racing;  with  being  a  first-class  poker  player,  I 
mean  a  really  first-class  one;  with  being  able  to 
swallow  a  drink  of  whisky  as  if  I  liked  it  instead 
of  having  to  choke  it  down  with  a  shudder;  with 


ii4  BACK  HOME 

knowing  truly  great  men  like  Fitzsimmons,  or 
whoever  it  is  that  is  great  now,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
slap  him  on  the  back  and  say:  "Why,  hello!  Bob, 
old  boy,  how  are  you  ?"  with  being  delighted  with 
the  company  of  actors,  instead  of  finding  them 
as  thin  as  tissue-paper  —  what  would  n't  I 
give  if  I  could  be  like  that  ?  My  life  has  been  a 
sad  one.  But  I  might  find  some  comfort  in  it  yet 
if  I  could  only  get  that  natty  little  spat  on  the 
water  when  I  lunge  forward  swimming  overhand. 
We  used  to  think  the  Old  Swimming-hole  was 
a  bully  place,  but  I  know  better  now.  The  syca 
more  leaned  well  out  over  the  water,  and  there 
was  a  trapeze  on  the  branch  that  grew  parallel 
with  the  shore,  but  the  water  near  it  was  never 
deep  enough  to  dive  into.  And  that  is  another  oc 
casion  of  humiliation.  I  can't  dive  worth  a  cent. 
When  I  go  down  to  the  slip  behind  Fulton  Mar 
ket  —  they  sell  fish  at  Fulton  Market;  just  follow 
your  nose  and  you  can't  miss  it  —  and  see  the 
rows  of  little  white  monkeys  doing  nothing  but 
diving,!  realize  that  the  Old  Swimming-hole  with 
all  its  beauties,  its  green  leafiness,  its  clean,  long 
grass  to  lie  upon  while  drying  in  the  sun,  or  to 
pull  out  and  bite  off  the  tender,  chrome-yellow 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  115 

ends,  was  but  a  provincial,  country-jake  affair. 
There  were  no  watermelon  rinds  there,  no 
broken  berry-baskets,  no  orange  peel,  no  noth 
ing.  All  the  fish  in  it  were  just  common  live  ones. 
And  there  was  no  diving.  But  at  the  real,  proper 
city  swimming-place  all  the  little  white  monkeys 
can  dive.  Each  is  gibbering  and  shrieking:  "  Hey, 
Chim-mee!  Chim-mee  t  Hey,  Chim-mee!  Cbim- 
meel  Hey,  CHIM-MEE-EE!  How  'ss  t  'iss  ? "  cross 
ing  himself  and  tipping  over  head  first,  com 
ing  up  so  as  to  "lay  his  hair,"  giving  a  shaking 
snort  to  clear  his  nose  and  mouth  of  water,  re 
gaining  the  ladder  with  three  overhand  strokes 
(every  one  of  them  with  that  natty  little  spat  that 
I  can't  get),  climbing  up  to  the  string-piece  and 
running  for  Chimmy,  red-eyed,  shivering,  and 
dripping,  to  ask:  "How  wass  t'at  ?"  And  I  can't 
dive  for  a  cent  —  that  is,  I  can't  dive  from  a  great 
elevation.  I  set  my  teeth  and  vow  I  just  will  dive 
from  ten  feet  above  the  water,  and  every  time  it 
gets  down  to  a  poor,  picayune  dive  off  the  lowest 
round  of  the  ladder.  I  blame  my  early  education 
for  it.  I  was  taught  to  be  careful  about  pitching 
myself  head  foremost  on  rocks  and  broken  bot 
tles.  I  used  to  think  it  was  a  fine  swimming-hole, 


ii6  BACK  HOME 

and  that  I  was  having  a  grand,  good  time,  well 
worth  any  ordinary  licking;  but  now  that  I  have 
traveled  around  and  seen  things,  I  know  that  it 
was  a  poor,  provincial,  country-jake  affair  after 
all.  The  first  time  I  swam  across  and  back  with 
out  "letting  down"  it  was  certainly  an  immense 
place,  but  when  I  went  back  there  a  year  ago  last 
summer  —  why,  pshaw!  it  wasn't  anything  at 
all.  It  was  a  dry  summer,  I  admit,  but  not  as  dry 
as  all  that.  A  poor,  pitiful,  provincial,  two-for-a. 
cent  —  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  . 

And  yet  I  sat  there  after  I  had  dressed,  and 
mused  upon  the  former  things  —  the  life  that  was, 
but  never  could  be  again;  the  Eden  before  whose 
gate  was  a  flaming  sword  turning  every  way.  The 
night  was  still  and  moonless.  The  Milky  Way 
slanted  across  the  dark  dome  above.  It  was  far 
from  the  street  lamps  that  greened  among  the 
leafy  maples  in  the  silent  streets.  Gushes  of  air 
stirred  the  fluttering  sycamore,  and  whispered 
in  the  tall  larches  that  marched  down  the  bound 
ary  line  of  the  Blymire  property.  The  last  group 
of  swimmers  had  turned  into  the  road  from  around 
the  clump  of  willows  at  the  end  of  the  pasture. 
The  boy  that  is  always  the  last  one  had  nearly 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  117 

caught  up  with  the  others,  for  the  velvet  pat  of  his 
bare  feet  in  the  deep  dust  was  slowing.  Their  eager 
chatter  softened  and  softened,  until  it  blended 
with  the  sounds  of  night  that  verge  on  silence,  the 
fall  of  a  leaf,  the  up-springing  of  a  trodden  tuft  of 
grass,  the  sleepy  twitter  of  a  dreaming  bird,  and 
the  shrilling  of  locusts  patiently  turning  a  creak 
ing  wheel.  I  heard  the  thump  of  hoofs  and  buggy 
wheels  booming  in  the  covered  bridge,  and  a 
shudder  came  upon  me  that  was  not  all  the  chill 
of  falling  dew.  Again  I  was  a  little  boy,  standing 
in  a  circle  of  my  fellows  and  staring  at  something 
pale,  stretched  out  upon  the  ground.  Ben  Snyder 
had  dived  for  It  and  found  It  and  brought  It  up 
and  laid  It  on  the  long,  clean  grass.  Some  one 
had  said  we  ought  to  get  a  barrel  and  roll  It  on 
the  barrel,  but  there  was  none  there.  And  then 
some  one  said:  "No,  it  was  against  the  law  to 
touch  anything  like  That  before  the  Coroner 
came."  So,  though  we  wished  that  something 
might  be  done,  we  were  glad  the  law  stepped  in 
and  stringently  forbade  us  touchingwhat  our  flesh 
crept  to  think  of  touching.  No  longer  existed  for 
us  the  boy  that  had  the  spy-glass  and  the  "Swiss 
Family  Robinson. "  Something  cold  and  terrible 


u8  BACK  HOME 

had  taken  his  place,  something  that  could  not 
see,  and  yet  looked  upward  with  unwinking  eyes. 
The  gloom  deepened,  and  the  dew  began  to  fall. 
We  could  hear  the  boy  that  ran  for  the  doctor 
whimpering  a  long  way  off.  We  wanted  to  go 
home,  and  yet  we  dared  not.  Something  might  get 
us.  And  we  could  not  leave  That  alone  in  the  dark 
with  It's  eyes  wide  open.  The  locusts  in  the  grass 
turned  and  turned  their  creaking  wheel,  and  the 
wind  whispered  in  the  tall  larches.  We  heard  the 
thump  of  hoofs  and  wheels  booming  in  the  cov 
ered  bridge.  It  was  the  doctor,  come  too  late.  He 
put  his  head  down  to  It's  bosom  (the  cold  trick 
led  down  our  backs),  and  then  he  said  it  was  too 
late.  If  we  had  known  enough,  he  said,  we  might 
have  saved  him.  We  slunk  away.  It  was  very  lone 
some.  We  kept  together,  and  spoke  low.  We 
stopped  to  hearken  for  a  moment  outside  the 
house  where  the  boy  had  lived  that  had  the 
spy-glass  and  the  'Swiss  Family  Robinson/' 
Some  one  had  told  his  mother.  And  then,  with 
a  great  and  terrible  fear  within  us,  we  ran 
each  to  his  own  home,  swiftly  and  silently. 
We  knew  now  why  mother  did  not  want  us  to  go 
swimming. 


THE  SWIMMING-HOLE  119 

But  the  next  afternoon  when  Chuck  Grove 
whistled  in  our  back  alley  and  held  up  two  fing 
ers,  I  dropped  the  hoe  and  went  with  him.  It  was 
bright  daylight  then,  and  that  is  different  from 
the  night. 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT 

IT  is  n't  only  Christmas  that  comes  but  once  a 
year  and  when  it  comes  it  brings  good 
cheer;  it 's  any  festival  that  is  worth  a  hill  of 
beans,  High  School  Commencement,  Fourth  of 
July,  Sunday-school  excursion,  Election  bonfire, 
Thanksgiving  Day  (a  nice  day  and  one  whereon 
you  can  eat  roast  turkey  till  you  can't  choke  down 
another  bite,  and  pumpkin-pie,  and  cranberry 
sauce.  Tell  you  /  )  —  but  about  the  best  in  the 
whole  lot,  and  something  the  city  folks  don't 
have,  is  Firemen's  Tournament.  That  comes 
once  a  year,  generally  about  the  time  for  putting 
up  tomatoes. 

The  first  that  most  of  us  know  about  it  is  when 
we  see  the  bills  up,  telling  how  much  excursion 
rates  will  be  to  our  town  from  Ostrander  and  Mt. 
Victory,  and  Wapatomica,  and  New  Berlin,  and 
Foster's,,  and  Caledonia,  and  Mechanicsburg  — 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          121 

all  the  towns  around  on  both  the  railroads.  But 
before  that  there  was  the  Citizens'  Committee, 
and  then  the  Executive  Committee,  and  the 
Finance  Committee,  and  the  Committee  on 
Press  and  Publicity,  and  Printing  and  Prizes, 
and  Decorations  and  Badges,  and  Music,  and 
Reception  to  Firemen,  and  Reception  to  Guests 
—  as  many  committees  as  there  are  nails  in 
the  fence  from  your  house  to  mine.  And  these 
committees  come  around  and  tell  you  that  we 
want  to  show  the  folks  that  we  've  got  public 
spirit  in  our  town,  some  spunk,  some  git-up  to  us. 
We  want  our  town  to  contrast  favorably  with 
Caledonia  where  they  had  the  Tournament  last 
year.  We  want  to  put  it  all  over  the  Caledonia 
people  (they  think  they  're  so  smart),  and  we  can 
do  it,  too,  if  everybody  will  take  a-holt  and  help. 
.  .  .  Well,  we  want  all  we  can  get.  We  expect 
a  pretty  generous  offer  from  you,  for  one.  Man 
that  has  as  pretty  and  tasty  got-up  store  as  you 
have,  and  does  the  business  that  you  do,  ought  to 
show  his  appreciation  of  the  town  and  try  to  help 
along.  .  .  .  Oh,  anything  you  're  a  mind 
to  give.  'Most  anything  comes  in  handy  for 
prizes.  But  what  we  principally  need  is  cash, 


122  BACK  HOME 

ready  cash.  You  see,  there  's  a  good  deal  of  ex 
pense  attached  to  an  enterprise  of  this  character. 
So  many  little  things  you  would  n't  think  of,  that 
you  Ve  just  got  to  have.  But  laws!  you  '11  make  it 
all  back  and  more,  too.  We  cackleate  there  Jll  be, 
at  the  very  least,  ten  thousand  people  in  town 
that  day,  and  it 's  just  naturally  bound  to  be  that 
some  of  them  will  do  their  trading.  .  .  . 
Thank  you  very  much.  That 's  very  handsome 
of  you.  Good  day,  (What  are  you  growling 
about  ?  Lucky  to  get  five  cents  out  of  that  man.) 
The  Ladies'  Aid  of  Center  Street  M.  E.,  has 
secured  the  store-room  recently  vacated  by  Rouse 
&  Meyers,  and  is  going  to  serve  a  dinner  that  day 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Carpet  Fund  of  their  church 
and  about  time,  too,  I  say.  I  like  to  broke  my 
neck  there  a  week  ago  last  Sunday  night,  when 
our  minister  was  away.  Caught  my  foot  in  a  hole 
in  the  carpet,  and  a  little  more  and  I  'd  have  gone 
headlong.  So,  it's:  "Why,  I  Ve  been  meaning 
for  more  than  a  year,  to  call  on  you,  Mrs.  — . 
Mrs.  —  (Let  me  look  at  my  list.  Oh,  yes)  Mrs. 
Cooper,  but  we  Ve  had  so  much  sickness  at 
home  —  you  know  my  husband's  father  is  stay 
ing  with  us  at  present,  and  he  *s  been  in  very  poor 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          123 

health  all  winter  —  and  when  it  has  n't  been 
sickness,  it 's  been  company.  You  know  how  it  is. 
And  it  seemed  as  if  I  — just  —  could  —  not  — 
make  out  to  get  up  your  way.  What  a  pretty 
little  place  you  have!  So  cozy!  I  was  just  saying  to 
Mrs.  Thorpe  here,  it  was  so  seldom  you  saw  a 
really  pretty  residence  in  this  part  of  town. 
We  think  that  up  on  the  hill,  where  we  reside,  you 
know,  is  about  the  handsomest.  .  .  .  Yes, 
there  are  a  great  many  wealthy  people  live  up 
there.  The  Quackenbushes  are  enormously 
wealthy.  I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Quackenbush  only 
the  other  day  that  I  thought  the  hill  people  were 
almost  too  exclusive.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  a  per 
fectly  lovely  day.  .  .  .  Er  —  er  —  We  're 
soliciting  for  the  Firemen's  Tournament  —  well, 
not  for  the  Tournament  exactly,  but  the  Ladies' 
Aid  are  going  to  give  a  dinner  that  day  for  the 
Carpet  Fund  and  we  thought  perhaps  you  'd  like 
to  help  along.  .  .  .  Oh,  any  little  thing,  a 
boiled  ham  or  —  .  .  .  Well,  we  shall  want 
some  cake,  but  we  'd  druther  —  or,  at  least,  raw- 
ther  —  have  something  more  substantial,  don't 
you  know,  pie  or  pickles  or  jelly,  don't  you  know. 
And  will  you  bring  it  or  shall  I  send  Michael  with 


124  BACK  HOME 

the  carriage  for  it  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  thank  you!  If 
you  would.  It  would  be  so  much  appreciated.  So 
sorry  we  could  n't  make  a  longer  stay,  but  now 
that  we  Ve  found  the  way.  .  .  .  Yes,  that 's 
very  true.  Well,  good-afternoon.5' 

The  lady  of  the  house  watches  them  as 
Michael  inquires:  "Whur  next,  mum?"  and 
bangs  the  door  of  the  carriage.  Then  she  turns 
and  says  to  herself:  "Huh!"  Mrs.  Thorpe  is  that 
instant  observing:  "Did  you  notice  that  crayon 
enlargement  she  had  hanging  up  ?  Would  n't  it 
kill  you?5'  To  which  the  other  lady  responds: 
"Well,  between  you  and  I,  Mrs.  Thorpe,  if  I 
could  n't  have  a  real  hand-painted  picture  I 
would  n't  have  nothing  at  all. " 

The  lady  of  the  house  bakes  a  cake.  She  '11 
show  them  a  thing  or  two  in  the  cake  line.  And 
while  it  is  in  the  oven  what  does  that  little  dev  — , 
that  provoking  Freddie,  do  but  see  if  he  can't 
jump  across  the  kitchen  in  two  jumps.  Fall  ? 
What  cake  would  n't  fall  ?  Of  course  it  falls.  But 
it  is  too  late  now  to  bake  another,  and  if  they 
don't  like  it,  they  know  what  they  can  do.  She 
does  n't  know  that  she's  under  any  obligation  to 
them. 


THE   FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          125 

Mrs.  John  Van  Meter  hears  Freddie  say  off 
the  little  speech  his  mother  taught  him  — Oh, 
you  may  be  sure  she'd  be  there  as  large  as  life, 
taking  charge  of  everything,  just  as  if  she  had 
been  one  of  the  workers,  when,  to  my  certain 
knowledge,  she  had  n't  been  to  one  of  the  com 
mittee  meetings,  not  a  one.  I  declare  I  don't 
know  what  Mr.  Craddock  is  thinking  of  to  let  her 
boss  every  body  around  the  way  she  does  —  and 
she  smiles  and  says:  "It's  all  right.  It's  just 
lovely.  Tell  your  mamma  Mrs.  Van  Meter  is  ever 
and  ever  so  much  obliged  to  her.  Is  n't  he  a  dear 
boy  ?"  And  when  he  is  gone,  she  says:  "What  are 
we  ever  going  to  do  with  all  this  cake  ?  It  seems 
as  if  everybody  has  sent  cake.  And  whatever  pos 
sessed  that  woman  to  attempt  a  cake,  I  —  can't 
—  imagine.  Ts!  ts!  ts!  H-well.  Oh,  put  it  some 
where.  Maybe  we  can  work  it  off  on  the  country 
people.  Mrs.  Filkins,  your  coffee  smells  PER- 
fectly  grand !  Perfectly  grand.  Do  you  think  we  '11 
have  spoons  enough  ?  " 

The  Tournament  prizes  are  exhibited  in  the 
windows  of  the  leading  furniture  emporium  at 
the  corner  of  Main  and  Center,  each  with  a  card 
attached  bearing  the  name  of  the  donor  in  dis- 


126  BACK   HOME 

tinctly  legible  characters.  Old  man  Hagerman  has 
been  mowing  all  the  rag-weed  and  cuckle-biirrs 
along  the  line  of  march,  and  the  lawns  have  had 
an  unusual  amount  of  shaving  and  sprinkling. 
Out  near  the  end  of  Center  Street,  the  grand 
stand  has  been  going  up,  tiers  of  seats  rising  from 
each  curb  line.  The  street  has  been  rolled  and 
sprinkled  and  scraped  until  it  is  in  fine  condition 
for  a  running  track.  Why  don't  you  pick  up 
that  pebble  and  throw  it  over  into  the  lot  ? 
Suppose  some  runner  should  slip  on  that  stone 
and  fall  and  hurt  himself,  you  'd  be  to  blame. 

The  day  before  the  Tournament,  they  hang 
the  banner: 

"WELCOME  VOLUNTEER  FIREMEN" 

from  Case's  drugstore  across  to  the  Furniture 
Emporium.  Along  the  line  of  march  you  may 
see  the  man  of  the  house  up  on  a  step-ladder 
against  the  front  porch,  with  his  hands  full 
of  drapery  and  his  mouth  full  of  tacks.  His  wife 
is  backing  toward  the  geranium  bed  to  get  a 
good  view,  cocking  her  head  on  one  side. 

"How  'v  vif  ?"  he  asks  as  well  as  he  can  for 
the  tacks. 


THE   FIREMEN'S   TOURNAMENT          127 

"  Little  higher.  Oh,  not  so  much.  Down  a 
little.  Whope!  That  's.  .  .  .  Oh,  plague 
take  the  firemen!  Just  look  at  that!  Mercy! 
Mercy!" 

The  man  of  the  house  can't  turn  his  head. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for  I 
don't  know  what!  Ts!  Ts!  Ts!  That  lovely  silver- 
leaf  geranium  that  Mrs.  Pritchard  give  me  a 
slip  of.  Broke  right  off!  Oh,  my!  My!  My! 
Do  you  s'pose  it  'd  grow  if  I  was  to  stick  it 
into  the  ground  just  as  it  is  with  all  them  buds 
on  it?" 

The  man  of  the  house  lets  one  end  of  the  drap 
ery  go  and  empties  his  mouth  of  tacks  into  his 
disengaged  hand. 

"I  don't  know.  Ow!  Jabbed  right  into  my 
gum!  But  I  can  tell  you  this:  If  you  think  I  'm 
going  to  stick  up  on  this  ladder  all  morning  while 
you  carry  on  about  some  fool  old  geranium  that 
you  can  just  as  well  fuss  with  when  I  'm  gone, 
why,  you  're  mighty  much  mistaken. " 

"Well,  you  need  n't  take  my  head  off.  I  feel 
awful  about  that  geranium. " 

"Well,  why  don't  you  look  where  you  're 
going  ?  Is  this  right  ? " 


128  BACK  HOME 

"Yes,  I  told  you.  I  wish  now  I  'd  done  it 
myself.  I  can't  ask  you  to  do  a  thing  about  the 
house  but  there  's  a  row  raised  right  away. " 

People  that  don't  want  to  go  to  the  trouble  of 
tacking  up  these  alphabet  flags  on  the  edge  of  the 
veranda  eaves  (it  takes  fourteen  of  them  to  spell 
"WELCOME  FIREMEN"),  say  they  think  a  hand 
some  flag  —  a  really  handsome  one,  not  one  of 
these  twenty-five  centers  —  is  as  pretty  and  rich 
looking  a  decoration  as  a  body  can  put  up. 

Tents  are  raised  in  the  vacant  lots  along  Cen 
ter  Street,  and  counters  knocked  together  for  the 
sale  of  ice-cold  lemonade,  lemo,  lemo,  lemo, 
made  in  the  shade,  with  a  spade,  by  an  old  maid, 
lemo,  lemo.  Here  y'  are  now,  gents,  gitch  nice 
cool  drink,  on'y  five  a  glass.  There  is  even 
the  hook  for  the  ice-cream  candy  man  to  throw 
the  taffy  over  when  he  pulls  it.  I  like  to  watch 
him.  It  makes  me  dribble  at  the  mouth  to  think 
about  it. 

The  man  that  sells  the  squawking  toys  and  the 
rubber  balloons  on  sticks  is  in  town.  All  he  can 
say  is:  "Fi'  cent."  He  will  blow  up  the  balloons 
to-morrow  morning.  The  men  with  the  black- 
velvet  covered  shields,  all  stuck  full  of  "  souve- 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          129 

nirs,"  are  here,  and  the  men  with  the  little  canes.  I 
guess  we  '11  have  a  big  crowd  if  it  does  n't  rain. 
What  does  the  paper  say  about  the  weather  ? 

The  boys  have  been  playing  a  new  game  for 
some  time  past,  but  it  is  only  this  evening  that 
you  notice  it.  The  way  of  it  is  this :  You  take  an 
express-wagon  —  it  has  to  have  real  wheels :  these 
sawed-out  wheels  are  too  baby  —  and  you  tie  a 
long  rope  to  the  tongue  and  fix  loops  on  the  rope, 
so  that  the  boys  can  put  each  a  loop  over  his 
shoulder.  (You  want  a  good  many  boys.)  And 
you  get  big,  long,  thick  pieces  of  rag  and  you  take 
and  tie  them  so  as  to  make  a  big,  big,  long  piece, 
about  as  long  as  from  here  to  'way  over  there. 
And  you  lay  this  in  the  wagon,  kind  of  in  folds 
like.  Then  you  go  up  to  where  they  water  the 
horses  and  two  of  you  go  at  the  back  end  of  the 
wagon  and  the  rest  put  the  loops  over  their 
shoulders,  and  one  boy  says,  "Are  you  ready  ?" 
and  he  has  a  Fourth  of  July  pistol  and  he  shoots 
off  a  cap.  And  when  you  hear  that,  you  run  like 
the  dickens  and  the  two  boys  behind  the  wagon 
let  out  the  hose  (the  big,  long,  thick  piece  of  rag) 
and  fix  it  so  it  lies  about  straight  on  the  ground. 
And  when  you  have  run  as  far  as  the  hose  will 


130  BACK  HOME 

reach,  the  boy  with  the  Fourth  of  July  pistol  says : 
"Twenty-eight  and  two-fifths/'  and  that's  the 
game.  And  the  kids  don't  like  for  big  folks  to 
stand  and  watch  them,  because  they  always 
make  fun  so. 

In  other  towns  they  have  Boys'  Companies 
organized  strictly  for  Tournament  purposes. 
There  was  talk  of  having  one  here.  Mat.  King, 
the  assistant  chief,  was  all  for  having  one  so  that 
we  could  compete  in  what  he  calls  "the  juveline 
contests,"  but  it  fell  through  somehow. 


Along  about  sun-up  you  hear  the  big  farm- 
wagons  clattering  into  town,  chairs  in  the  wagon- 
bed,  and  Paw,  and  Maw,  and  Mary  Elizabeth,  and 
Martin  Luther,  and  all  the  family,  clean  down  to 
Teedy,  the  baby.  He  's  named  after  Theodore 
Roosevelt,  and  they  have  the  letter  home  now, 
framed  and  hanging  up  over  the  organ.  But  for 
all  the  wagon  is  so  full,  there  is  room  for  a  big 
basket  covered  with  a  red-ended  towel.  (Seems 
to  me  I  smell  fried  chicken,  don't  you  ?) 

I  just  thought  I  'd  see  if  you  'd  bite.  You  've 
formed  your  notions  of  country  people  from 


THE   FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          131 

"The  Old  Homestead"  and  these  by-gosh-Mi- 
randy  novels.  The  real  farmers,  nowadays,  drive 
into  town  in  double-seated  carriages  with  match 
ed  bays,  curried  so  that  you  can  see  to  comb 
your  hair  in  their  glossy  sides.  The  single  rigs 
sparkle  in  the  sun,  conveying  young  men  and 
young  women  of  such  clean-cut,  high-bred  fea 
tures  as  to  make  us  wonder.  And  yet  I  don't  know 
why  we  should  wonder,  either.  They  all  come 
from  good  old  stock.  The  young  fellows  run  a 
little  too  strongly  to  patent-leather  shoes  and 
their  horses  are  almost  too  skittish  for  my  liking, 
but  the  girls  are  all  right.  If  their  clothes  set  bet 
ter  than  you  thought  they  would,  why,  you  must 
remember  that  they  subscribe  for  the  very  same 
fashion  magazines  that  you  do,  and  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  a  mail-order  business  in  this  country, 
even  if  you  are  n't  aware  of  it. 

All  the  little  boys  in  town  are  out  with  their 
baskets  chanting  sadly: 


C',    p  E  y    *  FFffi 


PEANUTS  ?      FIVE   A   BAG 

You  '11  hear  that  all  day  long. 


i32  BACK  HOME 

But  there  is  n't  much  going  on  before  the  ex 
cursion  trains  come  in.  Then  things  begin  to  hop. 
The  grand  marshal  and  his  aides  gallop  through 
the  streets  as  if  they  were  going  for  the  doctor. 
The  trains  of  ten  and  fifteen  coaches  pile  up  in 
the  railroad  yard,  and  the  yardmaster  nearly 
goes  out  of  his  mind.  People  are  so  anxious  to 
get  out  of  the  cars,  in  which  they  have  been 
packed  and  jammed  for  hours,  that  they  don't 
mind  a  little  thing  like  being  run  over  by  a 
switching  engine.  Every  platform  is  just  one 
solid  chunk  of  summer  hats  and  babies  and 
red  shirts  and  alto  horns.  They  have  been  nearly 
five  hours  coming  fifty  miles.  Stopped  at  every 
station  and  side-tracked  for  all  the  regular 
trains.  Such  a  time!  Lots  of  fun,  though.  The 
fellows  got  out  and  pulled  flowers,  and  seed 
cucumbers,  and  things  and  threw  them  at  folks. 
You  never  saw  such  cut-ups  as  they  are. 
Pretty  good  singers,  too.  Good  part  of  the  way, 
they  sung  "My  Bonnie  Lies  Over  the  Ocean," 
and  "How Can  I  Bear  to  Leave  Thee,"  nice  and 
slow,  you  know,  a  good  deal  of  tenor  and  not 
much  bass,  and  plenty  of  these  "minor  chords." 
(Yes,  I  know,  some  people  call  them  "barber- 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          133 

shop  chords,"  but  I  think  "minor"  is  a  nicer 
name.) 

The  band  played  "Hiawatha"  eighteen  times. 
One  old  fellow  got  on  at  Huntsville,  and  he  says, 
to  Joe  Bangs  (that's  the  leader),  "Shay,"  he 
says,  "play  'Turkey  in  er  Straw/  won't  you? 
Aw,  go  on.  Play  it.  Thass  goof  feller.  Go  on." 

Joe,  he  never  heard  of  the  tune.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  know  it  ?  Goes  like  this :  .  .  .  No, 
that  ain't  it.  That 's  "Gray  Eagle."  .... 
Funny,  I  can't  think  how  that  tune  starts.  Well? 
no  matter.  They  played  an  arrangement  that  had 
"Old  Zip  Coon  "in  it. 

"Naw,"  he  says,  "tha'  am'  it  'tall.  Go  on. 
Play  it.  Play  'Turkey  in  er  Straw.'  Ah,  ye  don't 
know  it.  Thass  reason.  Betch  don*  know  it. 
Don'  know  'Turkey  in  er  Straw! '  Ho!  Caw  seff 
ml-m'  sishn.  Ho!  You  —  you  —  you  ain'  no 
m'sishn.  You  —  you  —  you  're  zis  bluff."  Only 
about  half-past  eight,  too.  Think  of  that!  So  early 
in  the  morning.  Ah  me!  That 's  one  of  the  sad 
features  of  such  an  occasion. 

If  there  is  anything  more  magnificent  than  a 
firemen's  parade,  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  The 
varnished  woodwork  on  the  apparatus  looks  as  if 


I34  BACK  HOME 

it  had  just  come  out  of  the  shop  and  every  bit  of 
bright  work  glitters  fit  to  strike  you  blind.  You 
take,  now,  a  nice  hose-reel  painted  white  and 
striped  into  panels  with  a  fine  red  line,  every 
other  panel  fruits  and  flowers,  and  every  other 
panel  a  piece  of  looking-glass  shaped  like  a  cut 
of  pie  and?  I  tell  you,  it  looks  gay.  That 's  what  it 
does.  It  looks  gay.  Some  of  the  hook-and-ladder 
trucks  are  just  one  mass  of  golden-rod  and  hy 
drangeas,  and  some  of  them  are  all  fixed  with 
this  red-white-and-blue  paper  rope,  sort  of  che 
nille  effect,  or  more  like  a  feather  boa.  Every 
body  has  on  white  cotton  gloves,  and  those  en 
titled  to  carry  speaking  trumpets  have  bouquets 
in  the  bells  of  them,  salvias,  and  golden-rod,  and 
nasturtiums,  and  marigolds,  and  all  such. 

The  Wapatomicas  always  have  a  dog  up  on 
top  of  their  wagon.  First  off,  you  would  think  it 
did  n't  help  out  much,  it  is  such  a  forlorn  looking 
little  fice;  but  this  dog,  I  want  you  to  know, 
waked  up  the  folks  late  one  night,  'way  'long 
about  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  barking  at  a  fire. 
Saved  the  town,  as  you  might  say.  And  after  that, 
the  fire-boys  took  him  for  a  mascot.  I  guess  he 
did  n't  belong  to  anybody  before.  And  another 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          135 

wagon  has  a  chair  on  it,  and  in  that  chair  the 
cutest  little  girl  you  almost  ever  saw,  hair  all 
frizzed  at  the  ends,  and  a  wide  blue  sash  and  her 
white  frock  starched  as  stiff  as  a  milk-pail.  Ev 
erybody  says:  "Aw,  ain't  she  just  too  sweet?" 

The  Caledonias  have  tried  to  make  quite  a 
splurge  this  year.  They  walk  four  abreast,  with 
their  arms  locked,  and  their  white  gloves  on  each 
other's  shoulders.  Their  truck  has  on  it  what 
they  call  "an  allegorical  figure.  "There  is  a  kind  of 
a  business  (looks  to  me  like  it  is  the  axle  and  wheels 
of  a  toy  wagon,  stood  up  on  end  and  covered  with 
white  paper  muslin  and  a  string  tied  around  the 
middle)  that  is  supposed  to  be  an  hour-glass. 
Then  there  is  a  scythe  covered  with  cotton  bat 
ting,  and  then  a  man  in  a  bath-robe  (I  saw  the  fig 
ure  of  the  goods  when  the  wind  blew  it  open)  also 
covered  with  white  cotton  batting.  The  man  has  a 
wig  and  beard  of  wicking.  First,  I  thought  it  was 
Santa  Claus,  and  then  I  saw  the  scythe  and  knew 
it  must  be  old  Father  Time.  The  hour-glass  puz 
zled  me  no  little  though.  The  man  has  cotton- 
batting  wings.  One  of  them  is  a  little  wabbly,  but 
what  can  you  expect  from  Caledonia  ?  They  're  al 
ways  trying  to  butt  the  bull  off  the  bridge.  They're 


136  BACK  HOME 

jealous  of  our  town.  Oh,  they  stooped  to  all 
the  mean,  underhanded  tricks  you  ever  heard  of  to 
get  the  canning  factory  to  go  to  their  place  instead 
of  here.  But  we  know  a  thing  or  two  ourselves. 
Yes,  we  got  the  canning  factory ,  all  right,  all  right. 

Did  you  notice  how  neat  and  trim  our  boys 
looked  ?  None  of  this  flub-dub  of  scarlet  shirts 
with  a  big  white  monogram  on  the  breast,  or 
these  fawn-colored  suits  with  querlycues  of  braid 
all  over.  They  spot  very  easily.  And  did  you  no 
tice  how  the  Caledonias  had  long,  lean  men 
walking  with  short,  fat  men,  and  nobody  keeping 
step  ?  Our  boys  were  all  carefully  graded  and 
matched,  and  their  dark  blue  uniforms  with  just 
the  neat  nickel  badge,  I  think,  presented  the  best 
appearance  of  all.  And  I  '11  tell  you  another 
thing.  They  '11  put  it  all  over  the  Caledonias  this 
afternoon.  They  won't  let  'em  get  a  smell. 

Don't  you  like  the  fife-and-drum  corps  ?  The 
fifes  set  my  teeth  on  edge,  but  I  could  follow  the 
drums  all  day  with  their: 

Tucket  a  brum-brum,  brum-brum,  tuck-all  de  brum 
Tucket  a  brum-brum,  tuck-all  de  brum-brum-brum 
Tucket  a  blip-blip-blip-blip,  tucka  tuck-all  de  brum, 
Tucket  a  brum-brum,  tuck-all  de  brum-brum-brum/ 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          137 

Part  of  the  time  the  drummers  click  their 
sticks  together  instead  of  hitting  the  drum-head. 
That 's  what  makes  it  sound  so  nice.  I  wish  I 
could  play  the  snare-drum. 

In  the  Mechanicsburg  band  is  a  boy  about  four 
teen  years  old,  a  muscular,  sturdy  chunk  of  a 
lad.  He  walks  with  his  heels  down,  his  calves 
bulged  out  behind,  his  head  up,  and  the  regular, 
proper  swagger  of  a  bandsman.  He  has  n't  any 
uniform,  but  he  's  all  right.  He  plays  a  solo  B 
part,  and  he  and  the  other  solo  cornet  spell  each 
other.  On  the  repeat  of  every  strain  my  boy  rests, 
and  rubs  his  lips  with  his  forefinger,  while  he 
looks  at  the  populace  with  bright,  expectant 
eyes.  When  he  blows,  he  scowls,  and  brings  the 
cushion  of  muscle  on  the  point  of  his  chin  clear 
up  to  his  under  lip,  and  he  draws  his  breath 
through  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  He  's  the  real 
thing.  Bright  boy,  too,  I  judge,  the  kind  that  has 
a  quick  answer  for  everybody,  like : "  Aw,  go  chase 
yerself,"  or  "Go  on,  yeh  big  stiff."  Watch  him 
on  the  countermarch  when  they  pass  the  Radnor 
cornet  band.  The  Radnors  broke  up  the  Me 
chanicsburg  band  last  year  and  they  're  going  to 
try  to  do  it  again  this  year.  The  musicians  blow 


138  BACK  HOME 

themselves  the  color  of  a  huckleberry,  and  the 
drummers  grit  their  teeth,  and  try  to  pound  holes 
in  their  sheep-skins.  Aha!  It 's  the  Radnor  band 
got  rattled  in  its  time  this  year.  Went  all  to 
pieces.  The  boy  snatches  a  rest.  "Yah!"  he 
squawks.  "Didge  ever  get  left?"  and  picks  up 
the  tune  again.  I  wish  I  could  play  the  cornet. 
I  'd  play  solo  B  or  I  would  n't  play  any  — 
Ooooooooh!  Did  you  see  that?  Took  that  stick 
by  the  other  end  from  the  knob  and  slung  it 
away,  'way  up  in  the  air,  whirling  like  sixty,  and 
caught  it  when  it  came  down  and  never  missed  a 
step.  Look  at  him  juggle  it  from  hand  to  hand, 
over  his  shoulder,  and  behind  his  back,  and  un 
der  one  leg,  whirling  so  fast  that  you  can  hardly 
see  it,  and  all  in  perfect  step.  Whope!  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  drop  it  that  time  but  he  did  n't. 
That 's  something  you  don't  see  in  the  cities. 
There,  all  the  drum-major  does  with  his  stick  is 
just  to  point  it  the  way  the  band  is  to  go.  I  like 
our  fashion  the  best.  Geeminentally!  Look  at 
that!  I  bet  it  went  up  in  the  air  forty  feet  if  it 
went  an  inch.  I  wish  I  was  a  drum-major.  I 
guess  I  'd  sooner  be  a  drum-major  than  any 
thing  else.  Oh,  well,  detective  —  that 's  different. 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          139 

Let 's  go  farther  along.  Don't  get  too  near  the 
judges'  stand.  I  know.  It 's  the  best  place  to  see 
the  finish  of  an  event,  but  I  've  been  to  Firemen's 
Tournament  before.  You  let  me  pick  out  the 
seats.  Up  close  to  the  judges'  stand  is  all  right 
till  you  come  to  the  'wet  races."  What?  Oh, 
you  wait  and  see.  Fun  ?  Well,  I  should  say  so. 
Hope  they  '11  clear  all  those  boys  off  the  rail. 
Here!  Get  down  off  that  rail.  Think  we  can  see 
through  you  ?  You  're  thin,  but  you  're  not  thin 
enough  for  that.  Yes,  I  mean  you,  and  don't  you 
give  me  any  of  your  impudence  either.  Look  at 
those  women  out  there.  Right  spang  in  the  way 
of  the  scraper.  Is  n't  that  a  woman  all  over  ?  A 
woman  and  a  hen,  I  don't  know  which  is  — 
Well,  hel-lo!  Where  'd  you  come  from  ?  How  's 
all  the  folks  ?  Where  's  Lizzie  ?  Did  n't  she  come 
with  you  ?  Aw,  is  n't  that  too  bad  ?  Scalding  hot! 
Ts!  Ts!  Ts!  Seems  as  if  they  made  preserving 
kettles  a-purpose  so  's  they  'd  tip  up  when  you  go 
to  pour  anything.  .  .  .  Why,  I  guess  we 
can.  Move  over  a  little,  Charley.  Can  you  squeeze 
in  ?  That 's  all  right.  Pretty  thick  around  here, 
is  n't  it  ?  There  's  the  band  starting  up.  About 
time,  I  think.  Teedle-eedle  um-tum,  teedle- 


HO  BACK  HOME 

eedle,  um-tum.  "Hiawatha,"  of  course.  What 
other  tune  is  there  on  earth  ?  I  've  got  so  I  know 
almost  all  of  it. 

First  is  —  let  me  see  the  program.  First  is 
what  Mat.  King  calls  "the  juveline  contest."  It 
says  here:  "Run  with  truck  carrying  three  lad 
ders  one  hundred  yards.  Take  fifteen-foot  ladder 
from  truck,  raise  it  against  structure"  -  that 's 
the  judges'  stand  -  "and  boy  ascend.  Time  to 
be  taken  when  climber  grasps  top  rung  of  lad 
der."  They  're  off.  That  pistol-shot  started  them. 
Why  can't  people  sit  down  ?  See  just  as  well  if 
they  did.  New  Berlin's,  I  guess.  Pretty  good. 
He  's  hanging  out  the  slate  with  the  time  on  it. 
Eighteen  and  four-fifths.  Oh,  no,  never  in  the 
world.  Here  's  the  Mt.  Victory  boys.  See  that 
light-haired  boy.  Go  it,  towhead !  Ah,  they  've 
got  the  ladder  crooked.  Eighteen.  That 's  not  so 
bad.  .  .  .  Oh,  quit  your  fooling.  He  's 
nothing  of  the  kind.  Honestly  ?  What  !  that 
old  skeezicks  ?  Who  to,  for  pity's  sake  ?  Well, 
I  thought  he  was  a  confirmed  old  bachelor, 
if  anybody  ever  was.  Well,  sir,  that  just  goes 
to  show  that  any  man,  I  don't  care  who  he  is, 
can  get  married  if  he  -  Who  were  those  ? 


THE   FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          141 

Are  those  the  Caledonia  juveniles  ?  I  don't  think 
much  of  'em,  do  you  ?  Seventeen  and  two- 
fifths.  I  would  n't  have  thought  it.  So  their 
team  gets  the  first  prize.  Well,  we  were  n't  in 
that. 

What 's  next  ?  "  First  prize,  silver  water-set, 
donated  by  Hon.  William  Krouse."  Since  when 
did  old  Bill  Krouse  get  to  be  "Honorable?" 
Yes,  well,  don't  talk  to  me  about  Bill  Krouse.  I 
know  him  and  his  whole  connection  and  there 
is  n't  an  honest  hair  -  "Association  trophy  will 
also  be  competed  for."  Oh,  that 's  the  gold- 
lined  loving  cup  we  saw  in  the  window.  Our  boys 
have  won  it  twice  and  the  Caledonias  have  won 
it  twice.  If  we  get  it  this  time,  it  will  be  ours  for 
keeps.  "Run  with  truck  one  hundred  and  fifty 
yards;  take  twenty-five  foot  ladder,"  and  so 
forth  and  so  forth,  Dan  O'Brien  's  the  boy  for 
scaling  ladders.  He  was  going  to  enlist  in  the 
Boer  War,  he  hates  the  English  so.  Down  on 
them  the  worst  way.  And  say,  what  do  you 
think  ?  Last  year,  at  Caledonia,  he  won  the  first 
prize  for  individual  ladder  scaling.  And  what  do 
you  suppose  the  first  prize  was  ?  A  picture  of 
Queen  Victoria.  Is  n't  that  Caledonia  all  over  ? 


H2  BACK  HOME 

There  's  a  kind  of  rivalry  between  our  boys  and 
the  Caledonias. 

Here  they  come  now.  Those  are  the  Caledo 
nias.  Tell  by  the  truck.  .  .  .  Do  you  think 
so  ?  I  don't  think  they  're  anything  so  very  much. 
Nix.  You  '11  never  do  it.  Look  at  the  way  they 
run  with  their  heads  up.  That  shows  they  're 
all  winded.  Look  at  the  clumsy  way  they  got  the 
ladder  off  the  wagon.  Blap!  The  judge  thought  it 
was  coming  through  the  boards  on  him.  Oh, 
pretty  good,  pretty  good,  but  you  just  wait  till 
you  see  our  boys.  Look  at  the  fool  hanging  there 
on  the  ladder  waiting  till  the  time  is  announced. 
Is  n't  that  Caledonia  all  over  ?  Yah !  Come  down ! 
Come  down!  What  is  it?  Twenty-five  seconds. 
What 's  the  record  ?  Twenty-four  and  four- 
fifths  ?  Oh,  well,  it  is  n't  so  bad  for  Caledonia, 
but  you  just  wait  and  see  what  our  boys  do. 
Hear  those  yaps  from  Caledonia  yell!  If  there  's 
anything  I  despise  it  is  for  a  man  to  whoop  and 
holler  and  make  a  public  spectacle  of  himself. 

Who  's  this  ?  Oh,  the  Radnors.  They  're  out  of 
it.  Look  at  them.  Pulling  every  which  way.  That 
ladder 's  too  straight  up  and  down.  .  .  . 
Twenty-seven  and  two-fifths.  What  did  I  tell 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          143 

you  ?  .  .  .  What  time  does  your  train  go  ? 
Well,  why  don't  you  and  your  wife  come  take 
supper  with  us  ?  Why  did  n't  you  look  us  up 
noon-time  ?  .  .  .  I  could  have  told  you  bet 
ter  than  that.  (They  went  to  the  Ladies'  Aid  din 
ner.)  Well,  we  shan't  have  much,  I  expect,  but 
we  '11  try  and  scrape  up  something  more  filling 
than  layer-cake.  The  idea  of  expecting  to  feed 
hungry  people  on  layer-cake!  It's  an  imposi 
tion.  ...  I  did  n't  notice  which  one  it  was. 
Does  n't  matter  any  way.  Only  twenty-eight. 
Ah,  here  are  our  boys.  They  've  got  blue  silk 
running-breeches  on.  Well,  maybe  it  is  sateen. 
Let  the  women  folks  alone  for  knowing  sateen 
from  silk  a  mile  off.  How  much  a  yard  did  you 
say  it  was  ?  Notice  the  way  they  start  with  their 
hands  on  the  ground,  just  like  the  pictures  on 
the  sporting  page  of  the  Sunday  newspapers. 
Here  they  come.  Oh,  I  hope  they  '11  win.  That 's 
Charley  Rodehaver  in  front.  Run!  Oh,  why 
don't  you  run  ?  Come  on !  Come  on !  Come  on! 
Come  on!  COME  ON!  COME  ON!  COME  O  — 
O-oh!  See  Dan  skip  up  that  ladder!  Go  it, 
Dan!  Go  it,  old  boy!  Hooray-ay!  Hooray-ay- 
ay!  What 's  the  time  ?  Twenty-four!  Twenty- 


144  BACK  HOME 

four  flat!  BROKE  THE  RECORD!  Hooray- ay- ay ! 
Where  's  Caledonia  now  ?  Where  's  Caledonia 
now  ?  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  our  boys  won.  There 
goes  the  Caledonia  chief.  I  '11  bet  he  feels  like 
thirty  cents,  Spanish.  Ya-a-a-ah!  Ya-a-a-ah! 
Where  's  Caledonia  now  ?  They  can't  beat  that, 
the  other  fellows  can't,  and  it 's  our  trophy  for 
keeps.  .  .  .  Oh,  some  crank  in  the  next 
row.  "Would  n't  I  please  sit  down  and  not  ob 
struct  the  view."  Guess  he  comes  from  Caledo 
nia.  Looks  like  it.  You  stand  up,  too,  why  don't 
you  ?  Those  planks  are  terribly  hard.  ...  I 
did  n't  notice.  Yes,  that  was  n't  so  bad.  Twenty- 
five  and  two-fifths.  But  it 's  our  trophy.  There 
goes  Dan  now.  Hey,  Dan!  Good  boy,  Dan! 
Wave  your  handkerchief  at  him.  Hooray- ay- ay ! 
Good  boy,  Dan! 

Next  is  a  wet  race.  Now  look  out.  Let 's 
see  what  the  program  says:  "Run  seventy- 
five  yards  to  structure,  on  top  of  which  an 
empty  barrel  has  been  placed  with  spout 
outlet  near  top.  Barrel  to  be  filled  with  water  by 
means  of  buckets  from  reservoir"  -That  big 
tin-lined  box  opposite  is  the  reservoir.  They  are 
filling  it  now  with  a  hose  attached  to  the  water- 


THE   FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          145 

plug  yonder  -  "  until  water  issues  from  spout. " 
What  are  they  all  laughing  at  ?  Which  one  ?  Oh, 
but  is  n't  she  mad  ?  Talk  about  a  wet  hen.  Why, 
Charley,  the  hose  got  away  from  the  man  that 
was  filling  the  reservoir  and  the  lady  was  splash 
ed.  Why  don't  you  use  your  eyes  and  see  what 's 
going  on  and  not  be  bothering  me  to  tell  you  ?  Ip ! 
There  it  goes  again.  Oh,  ho!  ho!  ho!  hee!  hee! 
Did  n't  I  tell  you  it  would  be  fun  ?  See  it  run  out 
of  his  sleeves.  ...  I  always  get  to  cough 
ing  when  I  laugh  as  hard  as  that.  Oh,  dear  me! 
Makes  the  tears  come. 

These  are  the  fellows  from  Luxora.  Oh,  the 
clumsy  things!  Let  the  ladder  get  away  from 
them,  and  it  fell  and  hit  that  man  in  the  second 
row  right  on  the  head.  Hope  it  did  n't  hurt  him 
much.  See  'em  scurry  with  the  water  buckets. 
Aw,  get  a  move  on!  Get  a  move!  Why,  what 
makes  them  so  slow?  "Water,  water!"  Well,  I 
should  think  as  much.  Not  for  themselves 
though.  Those  fellows  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder 
are  catching  it,  are  n't  they  ?  Oh,  pshaw,  they 
don't  mind  it.  They  get  it  worse  than  that  at  a 
real  fire  when  they  are  n't  half  so  well  fixed  for  it. 
Why,  is  there  no  bottom  to  that  barrel  at  all  ? 


146  BACK  HOME 

.  Why,  look!  .  .  .  Say,  the  judge 
forgot  to  close  the  valve.  There  's  a  hose  con 
nected  with  the  bottom  of  the  barrel  to  run  the 
water  off  after  each  trial  and  he  's  forgotten  to  - 
.  .  .  Well,  is  n't  that  too  bad!  All  that  work 
for  nothing.  I  suppose  they  '11  let  them  try  it  over 
again.  .  .  .  That  man  must  have  got  a 
pretty  hard  rap.  They  're  carrying  him  out.  His 
head 's  all  bloody.  .  .  .  Wapatomicas,  I 
guess.  Yes,  Wapatomicas.  I  hope  the  valve  's 
closed  this  time.  Whope!  did  you  see  that  ?  One 
fellow  got  hit  with  a  water  bucket  and  it  was 
about  half-full.  It  's  running  out  of  the  spout. 
Yes,  and  it 's  falling  on  those  people  right  where 
you  wanted  to  sit.  Hear  the  girls  squeal.  Talk 
about  your  fun.  I  don't  want  any  better  fun  than 
this.  Look  at  'em  come  down  the  ladder  just 
holding  the  sides  with  their  hands.  They  could  n't 
do  that  if  the  ladder  was  dry. 

Ah,  here's  our  crowd.  Come  on!  Come  on! 
Come  on!  COME  ON!  Oh,  don't  be  so  slow  with 
those  buckets!  Are  n't  they  fine  ?  Say,  they  don't 
care  if  they  do  spill  a  drop  or  two.  Why.  .  .  „ 
Why,  what  are  they  coming  down  for  ?  It  is  n't 
running  out  of  the  spout  yet.  Come  back!  COME 


THE   FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          147 

BACK!  Oh,  pshaw!  Just  threw  it  away  by  being 
in  too  much  of  a  hurry.  That  judge  looks  funny, 
does  n't  he,  with  a  rubber  overcoat  on  and  the  sun 
shining?  See,  he's  telling  them:  "One  bucket 
more. "  They  '11  let  'em  have  another  trial,  of 
course.  .  .  .  No  ?  Oh,  that 's  an  outrage. 
That'  s  not  fair.  The  Caledonias  will  get  it  now. 
.  .  .  Yes,  sir,  they  did  get  it.  Oh,  well,  acci 
dents  will  happen.  What  ?  "Where  's  Caledonia 
now  ?"  Well,  they  got  it  by  a  fluke.  What  say  ? 
.  .  .  Well  only  for —  Oh,  pshaw!  Now, 
don't  tell  me  that  because  I  was  there  and  — 
Well,  I  say  they  did  n't.  ...  I  know  better, 
they  did  n't.  .  .  .  Oh,  shut  up.  You  don't 
know  what  you  're  talking  about.  I  tell  you  — 
Now,  Mary,  don't  you  interfere.  I  'm  not  quar 
reling.  I  'm  just  telling  this  gentleman  back  of 
me  that  -  Well,  all  right,  if  you  're  going  to 
cry.  If  there  was  any  fouling  done  it  was  the  Cal 
edonias  that  did  it,  though. 

The  next  is  where  they  "run  three  hundred 
feet  from  the  judges'  stand,  raise  ladder,  hose 
company  to  couple  to  hydrant,  break  coupling  in 
hose  and  put  on  nozzle,  scale  ladder,  and  fill 
twenty-five  gallon  barrel."  Only  the  Caledonias 


148  BACK  HOME 

and  our  boys  are  entered  in  this.  Now  we  '11  see 
which  is  the  best.  All  right,  Mary,  I  won't  say  a 
word.  .  .  .  Say,  for  country-jakes,  those 
Caledonias  did  n't  do  so  badly.  I  give  them  that 
much.  Look  at  the  water  fly!  I  '11  bet  those  folks 
near  the  judges'  stand  wish  they  'd  brought  their 
umbrellas.  Now  you  see  why  these  are  the  best 
seats,  don't  you  ?  I  told  you  I  'd  been  to  Fire 
men's  Tournaments  before.  What  ?  You  '11  have 
to  talk  louder  than  that  if  you  want  me  to  hear 
with  all  this  noise.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  '11  be  all 
right.  They  '11  be  so  hungry  they  won't  notice  it. 
.  .  .  Here,  be  careful  how  you  wabble  that 
hose  around.  Good  thing  they  turned  the  water 
off  at  the  plug  just  when  they  did  or  we  'd  have 
been  —  Here  's  our  company.  Where  's  Cale 
donia  now  ?  Eh  ?  Pretty  work !  Pretty  work ! 
Say,  do  you  know  that  hose  full  of  water  's 
heavy  ?  Now  watch  Riley.  Riley  's  the  one  that 's 
got  the  nozzle.  Always  up  to  some  monkeyshine. 
Ah!  See  him  ?  See  him  ?  Oh,  is  n^'t  he  soaking 
them?  Oh-ho!Ho!Ho!  ha!  ha!  hee-hee!  Yip. 
.  .  .  Blame  clumsy  fool!  .  .  .  P-too! 
Yes,  in  my  mouth  and  in  my  ears  and  down  the 
back  of  my  neck.  All  over.  Running  out  of  my 


THE   FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          149 

sleeves.  Everything  I  got  on  is  just  ruined.  Com 
pletely  ruined.  Come  on.  Let 's  go  home. 
There  's  nothing  more  to  see,  much.  Aw,  come 
on.  Well,  stay  if  you  want  to,  but  I  'm  going 
home,  and  get  some  dry  clothes  on  me.  You  get 
me  to  go  to  another  Firemen's  Tournament  and 
you  '11  know  it.  Look  at  that  monkey  from  Cale 
donia  laughing  at  me.  For  half  a  cent  I  'd  go  up 
and  smack  his  face  for  him.  .  .  .  Aw,  let 
up  on  your  "Where  's  Caledonia  now  ?"  Give  us 
a  rest.  Well,  are  you  coming,  you  folks  ?  .  .  . 
Kind  of  a  fizzle  this  year,  was  n't  it  ? 

However,  after  supper,  with  dry  clothes  on, 
it  is  n't  so  bad.  The  streets  are  packed.  All  the 
firemen  are  parading  and  shouting:  "Who? 
Who  ?  Who  are  we  ? "  The  Caledonias  got  one 
more  prize  than  our  boys.  Well,  why  should  n't 
they  ?  Entered  in  three  more  events.  I  don't  see 
as  that 's  anything  to  brag  of  or  to  carry  brooms 
about.  All  the  fife-and-drum  corps  are  out,  and 
the  bands  are  all  playing  "Hiawatha"  at  once, 
but  not  together.  Not  all  either.  There  's  one 
band  in  front  of  Hofmeyer's  playing  "Oh,  Hap 
py  Day!  That  Fixed  my  Choice."  That 's  funny: 
to  play  a  hymn-tune  in  front  of  a  beer-saloon. 


150  BACK  HOME 

Hofmeyer  seems  to  think  it 's  all  right.  He  's  in 
viting  them  in  to  have  something.  "Took  the 
hint  ?"  I  don't  understand.  .  .  .  Oh,  is  that 
so  ?  I  did  n't  know  there  were  other  words  to  that 
tune. 

See  that  woman  with  four  little  ones.  Her  hus 
band  's  carrying  two  more.  "I  want  to  go  howm. 
Why  cain't  we  gow  howm  ?  I  do'  want  to  gow 
howm  pretty  soon.  I  want  to  gow  na-ow!"  Eh, 
Mary,  how  would  you  like  to  lug  them  around 
all  day  and  then  stand  up  in  the  cars  all  the  way 
home  ? 

Well,  good-by.  Hope  you  had  a  nice  time.  Give 
my  regards  to  all  the  folks.  Don't  be  in  such  a 
rush,  my  friend.  .  .  .  Oh,  did  you  see  ?  It 
must  be  the  man  that  got  hit  on  the  head  with 
the  ladder.  Taking  him  home  on  a  stretcher. 
Gee!  That 's  tough.  Skull  fractured,  eh  ?  Dear! 
Dear!  I  hear  they  have  been  keeping  company  a 
long  time,  and  were  to  have  been  married  soon. 
No  wonder  she  cried  and  took  on  so.  Poor  girl! 
Yes,  it 's  the  women  that  suffer.  .  .  .  Oh, 
quite  a  day  for  accidents.  I  did  n't  mind,  though, 
after  I  had  changed  my  clothes.  I  took  some 
quinine,  and  I  guess  I  '11  be  all  right.  Lucky  you 


THE  FIREMEN'S  TOURNAMENT          151 

got  a  seat.  Well,  you  're  off  at  last.  Good-by.  Re 
member  me  to  all.  Good-by. 

Well,  thank  goodness,  that 's  over.  Another 
ten  minutes  of  them  and  I  'd  have  -  Well, 
Mary,  what  else  could  I  do  but  ask  them  home 
after  he  told  me  what  they  did  n't  have  to  eat  at 
the  Ladies'  Aid  ?  ...  It  was  all  right. 
Plenty  good  enough.  Better  than  they  have  at 
home  and  I  '11  bet  on  it.  The  table  looked  beauti 
ful.  I  'm  glad  the  Tournament  does  n't  come  but 
once  a  year.  I  'm  about  ready  to  drop. 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT 

MR.  SILVERSTONE  was  gloomily  con 
sidering  whether  he  had  not  better  blow 
out  the  lights  in  the  New  York  One 
Price  Clothing  Store,  and  lock  up  for  the  night. 
Kerosene  was  fifteen  cents  a  gallon,  and  not  a 
customer  had  been  in  since  supper-time.  Bus 
iness  was  "ofle,  simbly  ofle." 

The  streets  were  empty.  There  were  lights 
only  in  the  barber  shop  where  one  patron  was 
being  lathered  while  two  mandolins  and  a  guitar 
gave  a  correct  imitation  of  two  house-flies  and  a 
blue-bottle;  in  Riley's  where,  in  default  of  other 
occupation,  Mr.  Riley  was  counting  up;  in  Oes- 
terle's,  where  a  hot  discussion  was  going  on  as  to 
whether  Christopher  Columbus  was  a  Dutch 
man  or  a  Dago,  and  in  Miller's,  where  Tom  Ball 
was  telling  Tony,  who  impassively  wiped  the 
perforated  brass  plate  let  into  the  top  of  the  bar, 

152 


THE   DEVOURING  ELEMENT  153 

that  he,  Tom  Ball,  "  coiil'  lick  em  man  ill  Logan 

,  coun'y-" 

Lamps  shone  in  every  parlor,  where  little  girls 
labored  with:  "And  one  and  two,  three  and  one 
and  two,  three,"  occasionally  coming  out  to  look 
at  the  clock  to  see  if  the  hour  was  any  nearer  be 
ing  up  than  it  was  five  minutes  ago.  They  also 
shone  in  sitting-rooms,  where  boys  looked  fierce 
ly  at  "x2  -j-zxy-j-yV'  mothers  placidly  darned 
stockings,  and  fathers,  Weekly  Examiner  in 
hand,  patiently  struggled  to  disengage  from 
"boiler-plate"  and  bogus  news  about  people 
snatched  from  the  jaws  of  death  by  the  timely 
use  of  Dr.  McKinnon's  Healing  Extract  of  Tim 
othy  and  Red-top,  items  of  real  news,  such  as 
who  was  sick  and  what  ailed  them,  who  cut  his 
foot  with  the  ax  while  splitting  stove-wood,  and 
where  the  cake  sale  by  the  Rector's  Aid  of  Grace 
P.  E.  would  be  held  next  week. 

At  the  prayer-meeting,  Uncle  Billy  Nicholson 
was  giving  in  his  experience  and  had  just  got  to 
that  part  about:  "Sometimes  on  the  mountain- 
top,  and  sometimes  in  the  valley,  but  still,  never 
theless  -  '  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  something 
happened. 


i54  BACK  HOME 

The  mandolins  stopped  with  a  jerk.  Mr.  Riley 
stood  tranced  at:  "And  ten  is  thirty-five."  Mr., 
Ball  was  stricken  dumb  in  the  celebration  of  his 
own  great  physical  powers.  The  crowd  in  Oes- 
terle's  forgot  Columbus,  and  were  as  men  be 
holding  a  ghost.  The  drowsy  congregation  sat  up 
rigid,  and  Mr.  Silverstone  gave  a  guilty  start.  He 
had  been  thinking  of  that  very  thing! 

The  next  instant,  front  doors  were  wrenched 
open,  and  the  street  echoed  with  the  sound  of 
windows  being  raised.  Fathers  and  sons  rushed 
out  on  the  front  porch,  followed  by  little  girls,  to 
whom  any  excuse  to  stop  practising  was  like  a 
plank  to  a  drowning  man. 

They  had  heard  aright.  Up  by  the  Soldiers' 
Monument  fell  the  clump  of  tired  feet,  and  upon 
the  air  floated  the  wild  alarm  of — : 

"FIRE!  Pooh-ha!  FIRE!  Poof!  FIRE!" 

Mat  King,  the  assistant  chief,  kicked  off  his 
slippers,  and  swiftly  laced  up  his  shoes,  grabbed 
his  speaking-trumpet  and  his  helmet,  and  tore 
out  of  the  house.  If  he  could  only  get  to  the  en 
gine-house  before  Charley  Lomax,  the  chief! 
But  Charley  was  the  lone  customer  in  the  bar 
ber's  cha:r.  With  the  lather  on  one  side  of  his 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT  155 

face,  he  clapped  on  his  hat  and  broke  for  the 
fire-bell,  four  doors  below. 

"Where's  it  at?" 

"FIRE!  Pooh-ha!  FIRE!  Sm-pooh!  Fi  —  (gulp) 
-FIRE!" 

"It 's  Line  Hoover.  Hay,  Line!  Where  's  the 
fire  ? " 

"  FIRE  !  Pooh-ha !  FIRE  !  Whooh-ha,  whooh-ha ! 
FIRE!" 

"Hay,  Line!  Where  's  it  at  ?  Tell  me  and  I  '11 
run.  Hay!  Where 'sit  at?" 

"FIRE!  Swope's  ba  —  (gulp)  Swope's  barn. 
FIRE!" 

"Which  Swope  ?  Henry  or  the  old  man  ?" 

"  FIRE  !  Pooh !  J.  K.  Swope.  Whooh-ha,  whooh- 
ha!  Out  —  out  on  West  End  Avenue.  Poof!" 

The  news  thus  being  passed,  the  fresher  run 
ners  scampered  ahead,  bawling:  "FOY-URRR! 
FOY-URRR!"  and  Line,  the  hero,  slowed  down, 
gasping  for  breath  and  spitting  cotton. 

"Whew!"  he  whistled,  gustily,  his  arms 
dropping  and  his  whole  frame  collapsing. 
"Gee!  /  'm  'bout  tuckered.  Sm-pooh!  Sm- 
pooh!  Run  all  th'  way  f'm  —  sm-ha,  sm-ha!  — 
run  all  th'  way  f'm  —  mouth  's  all  stuck  to- 


156  BACK  HOME 

gather  —  p'too!  ha!  Pooh!  F'm  West  End  Ave 
nue  and  Swo  —  Swope's.  Gee!  I  'm  hot 's  flitter. " 

"Keep  y'  coat  on  when  you  're  all  of  a  pre- 
spiration,  that  way.  How  'd  it  ketch  ?" 

"Ount  know.  'S  comin'  by  there  an'  I  — 
whoof!  I  smelt  smoke  and  —  Gosh!  I  'm  all  out 
o'  breath  —  an'  I  looked  an'  I  je-e-est  could  see  a 
light  —  wisht  I  had  a  drink  o'  somepin'  to  rench 
mum  mouth  out.  Whew!  Oh,  laws!  An*  it  was 
Swope's  barn  and  I  run  in  an*  opened  the  door, 
did  n't  stop  to  knock  or  nung,  an'  I  hollered  out: 
*  Yib  barn  's  afire!'  an'  he  run  out  in  his  sock- 
feet,  an'  he  says:  'My  Lord!'  he  says.  'Line/  he 
says,  'run  git  the  ingine!'  an'  I  putt."  Line  drew 
in  a  long,  tremulous  breath  like  a  man  that  has 
looked  on  sorrow. 

"WhyVtyou— " 

"Betchy  't  was  tramps,"  interrupted  a  by 
stander.  "  Git  in  the  haymow  anj  think  they  got 
to  have  their  blamed  old  pipe  a-goin'  —  " 

"Cigarettes,  more  likely,"  said  another. 
"  More  darn  devilment  comes  from  cigarettes  — 

"  Why 'n't  you  - 

"Ount  know  nung  'bout  tramps,"  said  Line. 
"All  I  seen  was  the  fire,  I  was  a-comin'  long  a- 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT  157 

past  there  an'  I  smelt  the  smoke  an*  thinks  I  - 
What  say?" 

"Why  'n't  you  telefoam  down  ?" 

Line,  the  hero,  shrunk  a  foot.  "I  gosh!"  he 
admitted,  "I  never  thought  to." 

"  Jist  'a'  telefoamed,  you  could  'a'  saved  your 
self  all  that - 

"Ain't  they  weltin'  the  daylights  out  o'  that 
bell?  All  foolishness!  Now  they're  ringin'  the 
number  —  one,  two,  three,  four.  Yes,  sir,  that 's 
up  in  the  West  End.  You  goin'  ?  Come  on,  then." 

"No,  Frank,  I  can't  let  you  go.  You  've  got 
your  lessons  to  get.  Well,  now,  mother,  make  up 
your  mind  if  you  're  comin'  along.  Cora,  what  on 
earth  are  you  doing  out  here  in  the  night  air  with 
nothing  around  you  ?  Now,  you  mosey  right  back 
into  that  parlor,  and  don't  you  make  a  move  off 
that  piano-stool  till  your  hour  's  up.  Do  you  hear 
me  ?  No,  Frank.  I  told  you  once  you  could  n't 
go  and  that  ends  it.  Stop  your  whining!  I  can't 
have  you  running  hither  and  yon  all  hours  of  the 
night,  and  we  not  know  where  you  are.  Well,  hur 
ry  up,  then,  mother.  Take  him  in  with  you.  Oh, 
just  throw  a  shawl  over  your  head.  Nobody  '11 
see  you,  or  if  they  do  they  won't  care. " 


158  BACK  HOME 

The  apparatus  trundles  by,  the  bells  on  the 
trucks  tolling  sadly  as  the  striking  gear  on  the 
rear  axle  engages  the  cam.  A  hurrying  throng 
scuffles  by  in  the  gloom.  The  tolling  grows 
fainter,  the  throng  thinner. 

"Good  land!  Is  she  going  to  be  all  night? 
Wish  't  I  had  n't  proposed  it.  That 's  the  worst 
of  taking  a  woman  any  place.  Fuss  and  fiddle  by 
the  hour  in  front  of  the  looking-glass.  Em!  (Be  all 
over  by  the  time  we  get  there)  Oh,  Em!  .  . 
Em!  ...  EM!  (Holler  my  head  off!)  EM  ! 
.  Well,  why  don't  you  answer  me  ?  .  .  . 
Well,  I  did  n't  hear  you.  How  much  long  — 
Oh,  I  know  about  your  'minute.'  'Hour*  you 
mean.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Conk- 
lin  ?  Hello,  Fred.  Pleased  to  meet  you,  Miss  Shoe 
maker.  Yes,  I  saw  in  the  paper  you  were  visiting 
your  sister.  This  your  first  visit  to  our  little  burg  ? 
Yes,  we  think  it 's  quite  a  place.  You  see,  we  're 
trying  to  make  your  stay  as  interesting  as  possi 
ble.  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  not  altogether  on  your  ac 
count.  No,  no.  Ha!  Ha-ha-ha!  Hum!  ah!  .  .  . 
Well,  yes,  if  she  ever  gets  done  primping  up.  Oh, 
there  you  are.  Miss  Shoemaker,  let  me  make  you 
acquainted  with  my  wife.  Now,  you  girls  '11 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT  159 

have  to  get  a  move  on  if  you  want  to  see  any 
thing." 

The  male  escorts  grasp  the  ladies'  arms  and 
shove  them  ahead,  that  being  the  only  way  if  you 
are  ever  going  to  get  any  place.  The  women  gasp 
and  pant  and  make  a  great  to-do. 

"Ooh!  Wait  till  I  get  my  breath.  Will!  Wee- 
ull!  Don't  go  so  fay-ustl  Oooh!  I  can't  stand  it. 
Oh,  well,  you  're  a  man. " 

But  when  they  turn  the  corner  that  gives  them 
a  good  view  of  the  blaze,  fluttering  great  pufFs  of 
flame,  and  hear  the  steady  crackle  and  snapping, 
as  it  were,  of  a  great  popper  full  of  pop-corn, 
they,  too,  catch  the  infection,  and  run  with  a  loud 
swashing  and  slatting  of  skirts,  giggling  and 
squealing  about  their  hair  coming  down. 

In  the  waving  orange  glare  the  crowd  is  seen, 
shifting  and  moving.  It  seems  impossible  for  the 
onlookers  to  remain  constant  in  one  spot.  The 
chief,  Charley  Lomax,  is  gesticulating  with  wide- 
arm  movements.  He  puts  his  speaking-trumpet 
to  his  mouth.  "  YofFemofFemofFemofFemofF! "  he 
says. 

"Wha-at  ?"  the  men  halloo  back. 

"YofFemofFemofFemofFemofF. " 


160  BACK  HOME 

"  What  'd  he  say?" 

"  Search  me.  John,  you  run  over  and  ask  him 
what  he  wants.  Or,  no;  I  '11  go  myself. " 

"Why  in  Sam  Hill  did  n't  you  come  sooner  ?" 
demands  the  angry  chief. 

"Well,  why  in  Sam  Hill  don't  you  talk  so  's 
a  body  can  understand  you  ? '  Yoffemoffemoffem- 
offem. '  Who  can  make  sense  out  o'  that  ?" 

"The  hose  ain't  long  enough  to  reach  from 
here  to  the  hydrant.  You  'n'  some  more  of  'em 
run  down  t'  th'  house  an*  git  that  other  reel. " 

"Aw,  say,  Chief!  Look  here.  I  'm  awful  busy 
right  now.  Can't  somebody  else  go  ?" 

"You  go  an'  do  what  I  tell  you  to,  and  don't 
gimme  none  o'  your  back  talk. " 

(Too  dag-gon  bossy  and  dictatorial,  that  Char 
ley  Lomax  is.  Getting  'most  too  big  for  his 
breeches.  Never  mind.  There  's  going  to  be  a  fire 
election  week  from  Tuesday.  See  whether  he  '11 
be  chief  next  year  or  not.  Sending  a  man  away 
from  the  fire  right  at  the  most  interesting  part!) 

"I  '11  go,  Chief,  wommetoo,"  puts  in  Jumbo 
Lee,  all  in  a  huddle  of  words.  "Ije  slivsnot.  Aw 
ri.  Mon  Jim.  Shoonmeansmore  of  'em  go 
gitth'otherreel." 


THE   DEVOURING  ELEMENT  161 

Jumbo  is  n't  a  member  of  the  fire  department, 
though  he  is  wild  to  join.  He  is  n't  old  enough. 
He  is  six  feet  one  inch,  weighs  180,  and  won't  be 
sixteen  till  the  5th  of  next  February.  Nobody  ever 
saw  him  when  he  was  n't  eating.  They  say  he 
clips  his  words  so  as  to  save  time  for  eating.  He 
takes  a  cracker  out  of  his  pocket,  shoves  it  in  his 
mouth  whole,  jams  his  hat  down  till  his  ears  stick 
out,  and,  with  his  companions,  tears  down  the 
road,  seemingly  propelled  as  much  by  his  elbows 
as  by  his  legs.  Why,  under  the  combined  strain  of 
growing  and  running,  he  does  n't  part  a  seam 
somewhere  is  a  dark  mystery. 

Crash !  The  roof  of  the  barn  caves  in  and  re 
veals  what  we  had  not  before  suspected,  that 
Platt's  barn,  on  the  other  side  of  the  alley,  is  afire 
too.  Say!  This  is  getting  interesting.  The  wind  is 
setting  directly  toward  Swope's  house.  It  has 
been  so  terribly  dry  this  last  month  or  so  that  the 
house  will  go  like  powder  if  it  ever  catches.  Why, 
I  think  Swope  has  a  well  and  cistern  both.  Used 
to  have,  anyway,  before  they  put  the  water-works 
in,  and  the  board  of  health  condemned  the  wells. 
Say!  There  was  a  put-up  job  if  there  ever  was 
one.  Why,  sure!  Sure  he  had  stock  in  the  water- 


162  BACK  HOME 

works.  Doc.  Muzzey  ?  I  guess,  yes.  .  .  .  Pity 
they  ever  traded  off  the  hand-engine.  They  got  a 
light-running  hook-and-ladder  truck.  Won  two 
prizes  at  the  tournament,  just  with  that  truck. 
But  if  they  had  that  hand-engine  now  though! 
"Up  with  her!  Down  with  her!"  Have  that  fire 
out  in  no  time! 

They  're  not  trying  to  save  the  barns.  They  're 
a  dead  loss.  What  little  water  they  can  get  from 
the  cisterns  and  wells  around  —  has  nt  it  been 
dry  ?  —  they  are  using  to  try  to  save  Swope's 
house,  and  the  one  next  to  it.  Is  that  where  Lonny 
Wheeler  lives  ?  I  knew  it  was  up  this  way  some 
where.  Don't  he  look  ridiculous,  sitting  up  there 
a-straddle  of  his  ridge-pole,  with  a  tin-cup  ?  A  tin- 
cup,  if  you  please.  Over  this  way  a  little.  See  bel 
ter.  They  're  wetting  down  the  roof.  Line  of  fel 
lows  passing  buckets  to  the  ladder,  and  a  line  up 
the  ladder.  What  big  sparks  those  are!  Puts  you 
in  mind  of  Fourth  of  July.  How  the  roof  steams! 
Must  be  hot  up  there. 

O-o-o-oh ! 

A  universal  indrawn  breath  from  all  specta 
tors  proclaims  their  horror.  One  of  the  men  on 
the  roof  missed  his  footing  and  slipped,  rolling 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT  163 

over  and  over  till  he  reached  the  roof  of  the  porch, 
where  he  spread-eagled  for  a  fall.  The  women  be 
gin  to  moan.  Some  poor  fellow  gone  to  his  death. 
Or,  if  he  be  so  lucky  as  to  miss  death  itself,  he  is 
doomed  to  languish  all  his  days  a  helpless  cripple. 
Like  enough  the  sole  support  of  an  aged  mother; 
or  perhaps  his  wife  is  sitting  up  for  him  at  home 
now,  tiptoeing  into  the  bedroom  every  little 
while  to  look  at  the  sleeping  children.  That  *s 
generally  the  way  of  it.  Who  is  there  so  free  and 
foot-loose  that,  if  harm  befall  him,  some  woman 
will  not  go  mourning  all  her  days  ?  It  must  take 
the  heart  out  of  brave  men  to  think  what  their 
women  folk  must  suffer,  mothers  and  wives  and 
-  Who  ?  Dan  O'Brien  ?  Oh,  be  'II  be  all  right. 
He  '11  light  on  his  feet  like  a  cat.  I  believe  that 
boy  is  made  of  India  rubber.  He  never  gets  hurt. 
Why,  one  time  —  Ah !  There  he  goes  now  up  the 
ladder  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Hooray- ay-ay- 
ay!  Hooray- ay- ay-ay!  I  thought  he  'd  broken 
his  neck  as  sure  as  shooting. 

Wandering  about  one  cannot  fail  to  encounter 
what  the  gallant  fire-laddies  have  rescued  from 
the  devouring  element.  There  is  the  piano 
with  a  deep  scratch  across  the  upper  part, 


164  BACK  HOME 

and  the  top  lid  hanging  by  one  hinge.  It  caught 
in  the  door,  and  the  boys  were  kind  of  in  a 
hurry.  There  is  the  parlor  carpet,  plucked  up 
by  the  roots,  as  it  were;  and  two  tubs,  the 
washboard  and  a  bag  of  clothes-pins;  a  stuffed 
chair,  with  three  casters  gone,  the  coffee-pot, 
a  crayon  enlargement,  a  winter  overcoat,  a 
blanket,  a  pile  of  old  dresses,  the  screw-driver 
and  a  paper  of  tacks  in  the  colander,  the  couch 
with  a  triangular  rip  in  the  cover,  the  coal-scuttle, 
a  pile  of  dishes,  the  ax  and  wood-saw,  a  fancy 
pillow,  the  sewing-machine  with  the  top  gone, 
the  wash-boiler,  the  basket  of  dirty  clothes,  with 
the  stove-shaker  and  the  parlor  clock  in  to 
gether,  and  a  heap  of  books,  all  spraddled  and 
sprawled  every  which  way.  Upon  this  pitiful 
mound  sits  Mrs.  Swope  with  her  baby  sound 
asleep  upon  her  bosom.  She  mingles  her  tears 
with  the  sustaining  tea  that  Mrs.  Farley  has 
made  for  her.  Swope,  still  in  his  socks  and  with 
his  wife's  shoulder-cape  upon  him,  caught  up 
somehow,  is  trying  to  soothe  her.  He  is  as  mad  as 
a  hornet,  and  does  n't  dare  to  show  it.  All  this 
furniture  he  had  insured.  It  was  all  old  stuff  their 
folks  had  given  them.  If  the  gallant  fire-laddies 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT  165 

had  been  as  discreet  as  they  were  zealous,  they 
would  have  let  the  furniture  go,  and  Swope  and 
his  wife  would  have  had  an  entire,  brand-new 
outfit.  As  it  is,  who  can  ever  make  that  junk  look 
like  anything  any  more  ? 

What 's  this  coming  up  the  road  ?  Jumbo  Lee 
and  his  friends  with  the  other  hose-reel.  Now 
they  will  connect  it  with  the  hydrant,  and  have 
water  a-plenty  to  save  the  house.  Now  the  fel 
lows  are  coming  down  from  the  ladder.  Cistern 's 
empty,  I  suppose.  The  other  reel  did  n't  come  any 
too  soon.  How  the  roof  steams !  Or  is  it  smoking  ? 

"Don't  stand  around  here  with  that  reel!  Up 
to  that  water-plug.  Farther  up  the  street.  Front 
o*  Cummins's." 

Jumbo  crams  another  cracker  into  his  mouth 
and  speeds  away,  hunching  the  patient,  unre- 
senting  air  with  his  elbows. 

Ah!  See  that  little  flicker  of  flame  on  the  roof! 
Do,  for  pity's  sake,  hurry  up  with  that  connec 
tion!  The  roof  is  really  burning.  See?  They 
are  trying  to  chop  away  the  burning  place.  But 
there  's  another!  And  another! 

A-a-ah!  Hooray-ay!  Connection  Js  made!  Now 
you  '11  see  something.  Out  of  the  way  there!  One 


1 66  BACK  HOME 

side!  One  side!  Up  you  go!  .  .  .  Wha-at? 
Is  that  the  best  they  can  do  ?  Why,  it  won't  run 
out  of  the  nozzle  at  all  when  it 's  up  on  the  roof! 
Not  a  drop.  Feeble  little  dribble  when  it 's  on  the 
ground-level.  There  's  your  water-works  for  you. 
It  is  a  good  long  way  from  the  fire-plug  I  know, 
but  there  ought  to  be  more  pressure  than  that. 
Oh,  pshaw!  If  we  only  had  the  old  hand-engine! 
"Up  with  her!  Down  with  her  1"  Have  that  fire 
out  in  no  time.  The  house  will  have  to  go  now. 
Too  bad ! 

Somebody  in  the  second  story  is  rescuing 
property  from  the  devouring  element.  He  has 
just  tossed  out  a  wash-bowl  and  pitcher.  Luckily 
they  both  fell  on  the  sod  and  rolled  apart.  He 
takes  down  the  roller-shade  and  flings  it  out.  The 
lace  curtains  follow.  They  catch  on  the  edge  of 
the  veranda  roof,  and  languidly  wave  there  as  for 
some  holiday.  Bed-clothes  issue  and  pillows 
hurtle  out.  What 's  he  doing  now  ?  No  use.  No 
use.  You  can't  get  the  mattress  out  of  that  win 
dow.  A  waste-paper  basket,  a  rag  rug,  a  brush 
and  comb  —  as  fast  as  his  hands  can  fly  he  's 
throwing  out  things. 

The  women  began  to  whimper. 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT  167 

"Oh,  the  poor  man!  The  roof  will  fall  in  on 
him!  He  '11  smother  to  death!  Oh,  why  does  n't 
somebody  go  tell  him  to  come  away  ?  Not  you! 
Don't  you  think  of  such  a  trick!  Oh,  why  does 
he  risk  his  life  for  a  lot  of  trash  I  would  n't  have 
around  the  house  ?" 

The  smoke  oozes  out  of  the  open  window.  It 
must  be  choking  in  there.  For  a  long  time  no  jet 
tison  of  household  goods  appears.  Perhaps  the 
man,  whoever  he  is,  has  seen  his  peril  and  fled 
while  yet  it  was  possible  to  flee.  Ah,  but  suppose 
he  has  been  overcome  and  lies  there  huddled  in  a 
heap,  never  to  rouse  again  ?  Is  there  none  to  save 
him  ?  Is  there  none  ?  Ah !  A  couple  of  collars  and 
a  magazine  flutter  out  into  the  light!  He  is  still 
there.  He  is  still  alive.  Plague  take  the  idiot!  Why 
does  n't  he  come  down  out  of  that  ? 

"Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff.  Yoffemoff!" 

But  no!  He  will  do  it  himself.  The  Chief  rushes 
gallantly  into  the  burning  building  and  disap 
pears  up  the  dark  stair. 

Desperate  measures  are  now  to  be  resorted  to. 
On  the  lawn  a  line  of  men  forms.  They  bend 
their  necks,  cowering  before  the  fierce  glow,  but 
daring  it,  and  prepared  to  face  it  at  even  closer 


1 68  BACK  HOME 

range.  You  are  to  witness  now  an  exhibition  of 
that  heroism  which  is  commoner  with  us  than  we 
think,  that  spirit  of  do  and  dare  which  mocks  at 
danger  and  even  welcomes  pain.  It  is  a  far  finer 
sentiment  than  the  cold-hearted  calculation 
which  looks  ahead,  and  figures  out  first  whether 
it  is  worth  while  or  not. 

The  men  dash  forward  in  the  withering  heat. 
With  frantic  haste  they  fix  the  hook  into  the 
lattice-work  beneath  the  porch  and  scamper 
back. 

"YoheelYohee!" 

The  thick  rope  tautens  as  the  firemen  lay  their 
weight  to  it.  You  can  almost  see  the  bristling 
fibers  stand  up  on  it. 

"YoheelYohee!" 

With  a  splintering  crash  the  timber  parts,  and 
a  piece  of  lattice-work  is  dragged  away. 

Another  sortie  and  another.  Bit  by  bit  the 
porch  is  ripped  and  torn  to  rubbish.  You  smile. 
It  seems  so  futile.  What  are  these  kindlings  saved 
when  the  whole  house  is  burning  ?  Is  this  what 
you  call  heroism  ?  Yet  the  charge  at  Balaklava 
was  not  more  futile.  It  had  even  less  of  common- 
sense,  less  of  hope  of  benefit  to  mankind  to  back 


THE   DEVOURING  ELEMENT  169 

it  and  inspire  it.  Heroism  is  an  instinct,  not  a 
thought-out  policy.  Its  quality  is  the  same,  in 
two-ounce  samples  or  in  car-load  lots. 

The  weather-boarding  slips  down  in  a  spark 
ling  fall.  The  joists  and  stringers,  all  outlined  and 
gemmed  with  coals,  are,  as  it  were,  a  golden  grille, 
through  which  the  world  may  look  unhindered 
in  upon  the  holy  place  of  home,  heretofore  con- 
ventually  private.  There  stands  the  family  altar, 
pitifully  grotesque  amid  the  ruinous  splendor  of 
the  destroying  fire,  the  tea-kettle  upon  it  proudly 
flaunting  its  steamy  plume.  What  ?  Is  a  common 
cooking-stove  an  altar  ?  Yes,  verily,  in  lineal 
descent.  Examine  an  ancient  altar  and  you  will 
see  its  sacrificial  stone  scored  and  guttered  to 
catch  the  dripping  from  the  roasting  meat. 
Who  is  the  priestess,  after  an  order  older  than 
Melchisedec's,  but  she  that  ministers  to  us  that 
most  comfortable  sacrament,  wherein  we  are 
made  partakers  not  alone  of  the  outward  and 
visible  food  which  we  do  carnally  press  with  our 
teeth,  but  also  of  that  inward  and  spiritual  sus 
tenance,  the  patient  and  enduring  love  of  wife 
and  mother,  without  which  there  can  be  no  such 
thing  as  home  ?  All  other  sacraments  wherein 


1 70  BACK  HOME 

men  break  the  bread  of  amity  together  are  but 
copies  of  this  pattern,  the  Blessed  Sacrament  of 
the  Household  Altar,  the  first  and  primal  one  of 
all,  the  one  that  shall  perdure,  please  God! 
throughout  all  ages  of  ages. 

The  flames  die  down.  The  timbers  sink  to 
gether  with  a  softer  fall.  The  air  grows  chill.  We 
fetch  a  sigh.  We  cannot  bear  to  look  at  that  mute 
figure  of  the  priestess  seated  on  the  sordid  heap 
of  broken  furniture,  her  sleeping  baby  pressed 
against  her  breast,  her  gaze  fixed  —  but  seeing 
naught  —  upon  her  ruined  temple.  We  do  not 
like  to  think  upon  such  things.  We  do  not  like  to 
think  at  all.  Is  there  nothing  more  to  laugh  at  ? 

The  firemen,  having  all  borrowed  the  makings 
of  a  cigarette  from  each  other,  put  on  their  hats 
and  coats,  left  on  the  hook-and-ladder  truck  in 
the  custody  of  a  trusted  member.  The  apparatus 
trundles  off,  the  bells  dolorously  tolling  as  the 
striking  gear  on  the  rear  axle  engages  the  cam. 

Who  is  this  weeping  man  approaches,  sup 
ported  by  two  friends,  that  comfort  him  with: 
"All  right,  Tom.  You  done  noble,"  uttered  in 
pacifying  if  not  convincing  tones  ?  Heart-broken 
ly  he  cries:  "I  dull  le  ver'  bes'  I  knowed,  now 


THE  DEVOURING  ELEMENT  171 

di'  n't  T  Charley  ?  Billy,  I  dub  bes'  I  knowed 
how.  An'  nen  he  says  to  me  —  Oo-hoo-hoo-oo- 
oo-oo!  He  says  to  me:  'Come  ou'  that,  ye  cussed 
fool!'  Oo-oo-oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo !  Smf!  Lemme  gi' 
amma  ham  —  hankshiff.  Leg  go  my  arm.  Waw 
gi'  amma  hankshiff.  Oo-oo-oo-/joo-hoo-oo-oo ! 
Fmf !  I  ash  you  as  mav  wurl  —  I  ash  you  as 
mav  —  man  of  world,  is  that  —  is  thap  proper 
way  address  me  ?  Me !  Know  who  I  am  ?  I  'm 
Tom  Ball.  'S  who  I  am.  I  kill  lick  em  man  ill 
Logan  Coun'y.  Ai'  thasso  ?  Hay  ?  'S  aw  ri.  Mfi 
choose  stay  up  there,  aw  thas  sec  —  aw  thas 
second  floor  and  rescue  fel-cizzen's  prop-prop'ty 
from  devouring  em  —  from  devouring  em-le- 
ment,  thas  my  bizless.  Ai'  tham  my  bizless,  Char 
ley  ?  Ai'  tham  my  bizless,  Billy  ?  W'y,  sure.  Char 
ley,  you  're  goof  feller.  You  too,  Billy.  You  're 
goof  feller,  too.  Say.  Wur — wur  if  Miller's  is  open 
yet  ?  'Spose  it  is  ?  Charley,  I  dub  bes'  I  knowed 
how,  di'  n't  I,  now  ?  Affor  that  Chief  come  up 
thas  stairway  and  say  me :  *  Come  ou'  that,  ye 
cussed  fool ! '  Aw  say !  *  Come  ou'  that  -  '  Called 
me  fool,  too!  Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo ! " 

"Hello,  Dan!  Hurt  yourself  any  ?  (That 's  Dan 
O'Brien.  Fell  off  the  roof.)  Well,  sir,  I  thought 


172  BACK  HOME 

sure  you  'd  broken  your  neck.  You  don't  know 
your  luck.  And  let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  my  bold 
bucko:  You  '11  do  that  just  once  too  often.  Now 
you  mark. " 

The  day  before  the  Weekly  Examiner  goes  to 
press,  Mr.  Swope  hands  the  editor  a  composition 
entitled:  "A  Card  of  Thanks/'  signed  by  John 
K.  and  Amelia  M.  Swope,  and  addressed  to  the 
firemen  and  all  who  showed  by  their  many  acts 
of  kindness,  and  so  forth  and  so  on. 

"Kind  of  help  to  fill  up  the  paper,"  says  Mr. 
Swope,  covering  his  retreat. 

"Sure,"  replies  the  editor.  When  Mr.  Swope 
is  good  and  gone,  he  says :  "  Dog  my  riggin's  if  I 
did  n't  forget  all  about  writing  up  that  fire.  Been 
so  busy  here  lately.  Good  thing  he  come  in. 
Hay,  Andy!" 

"Watch  want?"  from  the  composing-room. 

"Got  room  for  about  two  sticks  more  ?" 

"Yes,  guess  so.  If  it  don't  run  over  that." 

A  brief  silence.  Then: 

"Hay,  Andy?" 

"What?"  ^ 

"  Is  it  '  had  have/  or4  had  of?" 


THE   DEVOURING  ELEMENT  173 

"What's  the  connection?" 

"Why-ah.  'If  the  gallant  fire-laddies,  under 
the  able  direction  of  Chief  Charley  Lomax,  had 
of  had  a  sufficiency  of  water  with  which  to  cope 
with  the  devouring  element  —  '  etc. " 

"'Had  have/  I  guess.  /  don't  know." 

"Guess  you're  right.  Run  it  that  way  any 
how." 


CIRCUS  DAY 

ONLY  the  other  day,  the  man  that  in  all 
this  country  knows  better  than  anybody 
else  how  a  circus  should  be  advertised, 
said  (with  some  sadness,  I  do  believe)  that  it 
did  n't  pay  any  longer  to  put  up  show-bills;  the 
money  was  better  invested  in  newspaper  adver 
tising. 

"  It  does  n't  pay."  Ah,  me!  How  the  commer 
cial  spirit  of  the  age  plays  whaley  with  the 
romance  of  existence!  You  shall  not  look  long 
upon  the  show-bill  now  that  there  is  no  money 
to  be  had  from  it.  "  Youth's  sweet-scented 
manuscript"  is  about  to  close,  but  ere  it  does, 
let  us  turn  back  a  little  to  the  pages  illuminated 
by  the  glowing  colors  of  the  circus  poster. 

Saturday  afternoon  when  we  went  by  the  en 
gine-house,  its  brick  wall  fluttered  with  the  rags 
and  tatters  of  "  Esther,  the  Beautiful  Queen," 

174 


CIRCUS  DAY  175 

and  the  lecture  on  "The  Republic:  Will  it  En 
dure?"  (Gee!  But  that  was  exciting!)  Sunday 
morning,  after  Sunday-school,  there  was  a  sud 
den  quickening  among  the  boys.  We  stopped 
nibbling  on  the  edges  of  the  lesson  leaf  and  fol 
lowed  the  crowd  in  scuttling  haste.  Miraculous 
ly,  over-night,  the  shabby  wall  had  blossomed 
into  thralling  splendor.  What  was  Daniel  in  the 
Lions'  Den,  compared  with  Herr  Alexander  in 
the  same  ?  Not,  as  the  prophet  is  pictured,  in  the 
farthest  corner  from  the  lions,  and  manifestly 
saying  to  himself:  "If  I  was  only  out  of  this!" 
But  with  his  head  right  smack  dab  in  the  lion's 
mouth.  Right  in  it.  Yes,  sir. 

"S'posin'I"  we  gasped,  all  goggle-eyed,  "jist 
s'posin'  that  there  lion  was  to  shut  his  mouth! 
.  .  .  Ga-ash!" 

The  Golden  Text  ?  It  faded  before  the  lemon- 
and-scarlet  glories  of  the  Golden  Chariot. 
Drawn  by  sixteen  dappled  steeds,  each  with  his 
neck  arching  like  a  fish-hook  and  reined  with 
fancy  scalloped  reins,  it  occupied  the  center  of 
the  foreground.  The  band  rode  in  it,  far  more 
fortunate  than  our  local  band  whose  best  was 
Charley  Wells's  depot  'bus.  And  nobler  than  all 


176  BACK  HOME 

his  fellows  was  the  bass-drummer.  He  had  a 
canopy  over  him,  a  carved  and  golden  canopy, 
on  whose  top  revolved  a  clown's  head  with  its 
tongue  stuck  out.  On  each  quarter  of  this  rococo 
shallop  a  golden  circus-girl  in  short  skirts  gaily 
skipped  rope  with  a  nubia  or  fascinator,  or 
whatever  it  is  the  women  call  the  thing  they 
wrap  around  their  heads  in  cold  weather 
when  they  hang  out  the  clothes.  There  were 
big  pieces  of  looking-glass  let  into  the  sides 
of  the  band-wagon,  and  every  decorator  knows 
that  when  you  put  looking-glass  on  a  thing 
it  is  impossible  to  fix  it  so  that  it  will  be  any 
finer. 

Winding  back  and  forth  across  the  picture 
was  the  long  train  of  tableau-cars  and  animal 
cages,  diminishing  with  distance  until  away, 
'way  up  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner  the  hind 
most  van  was  all  immersed  in  the  blue-and-yel- 
low  haze  just  this  side  of  out-of-sight.  That  with 
our  own  eyes  we  should  behold  the  glories  here 
set  forth  we  knew  right  well.  Cruel  Fortune 
might  cheat  us  of  the  raptures  to  be  had  inside 
the  tents,  but  the  street-parade  was  ours,  for  it 
was  free. 


CIRCUS   DAY  177 

It  seems  to  me  that  we  did  not  linger  so  long 
before  these  pictures,  nor  before  those  of  the 
rare  and  costly  animals,  which,  if  we  but  knew  it, 
were  the  main  reason  why  we  were  permitted  to 
go  (if  we  did  get  to  go).  To  look  at  these  animals 
is  improving  to  the  mind,  and  since  we  could  not 
go  alone,  an  older  person  had  to  accompany  us, 
and  .  .  .  and  ...  I  trust  I  make  my 
self  clear.  But  we  did  n't  want  to  improve  our 
minds  if  it  was  a  possible  thing  to  avoid  it.  The 
pictures  of  these  animals  were  in  the  joggerfy 
book  anyhow,  though  not  in  colors,  unless  we 
had  a  box  of  paints.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  show-bill  pictures  of  the  menageries  were  in 
colors.  I  seem  to  recollect  that  Mr.  Galbraith, 
who  kept  the  dry-goods  store  across  the  street 
from  the  engine-house,  was  very  much  exercised 
in  his  mind  about  the  way  one  of  these  pictures 
was  printed.  It  was  the  counterfeit  presentment 
of  the  Hip-po-pot-a-mus,  or  Behemoth  of  Holy 
Writ.  His  objection  to  the  hip  —  you  know  — 
was  not  because  its  open  countenance  was  so 
fearsome,  but  because  it  was  so  red.  Six  feet  by 
two  of  flaming  crimson  across  the  street  in  the 
afternoon  sun  made  it  necessary  for  him  to 


i;8  BACK  HOME 

take  the  goods  to  the  back  window  of  the 
store  to  show  to  customers.  He  did  n't  like  it 
a  bit. 

No.  Neither  before  the  large  and  expensive 
pictures  of  the  street-parade,  nor  the  large  and 
expensive  wild  beasts  did  we  linger.  The  swarm 
was  thickest,  and  the  jabbering  loudest,  the 
''O-o-oh's,"  the  "M!  Looky's"  the  "Geemi- 
nently's"  shrillest,  in  front  of  where  the  deeds  of 
high  emprise  were  set  forth.  Men  with  their  fists 
clenched  on  their  breasts,  and  their  neatly  slip 
pered  toes  touching  the  backs  of  their  heads, 
crashed  through  paper-covered  hoops  beneath 
which  horses  madly  coursed;  they  flew  through 
the  air  with  the  greatest  of  ease,  the  daring 
young  men  on  the  flying  trapeze,  or  they  posed  in 
living  pyramids. 

And  as  the  .sons  of  men  assembled  themselves 
together,  Satan  came  also,  the  spirit  I,  that  ever 
more  denies. 

"A-a-ah!"  sneers  his  embodiment  in  one 
whose  crackling  voice  cannot  make  up  its  mind 
whether  to  be  bass  or  treble,  "A-a-ah,  to  the 
show  they  down't  do  hay-uf  what  they  is  in  the 
pitchers." 


CIRCUS    DAY  179 

A  chilling  silence  follows.  A  cold  uneasiness 
strikes  into  all  the  listeners.  We  are  all  made 
wretched  by  destructive  criticism.  Let  us  alone 
in  our  ideals.  Let  us  alone,  can't  you  ? 

"Now  .  .  .  now,"  pursues  the  crackle- 
voiced  Mephisto,  pointing  to  where  Japanese 
jugglers  defy  the  law  of  gravitation  and  other  ex 
periences  of  daily  life,  "  now,  they  cain't  walk  up 
no  ladder  made  out  o'  reel  sharp  swords." 

"They  can  so  walk  up  it,"  stoutly  declares  one 
boy.  Hurrah!  A  champion  to  the  rescue!  The 
others  edge  closer  to  him.  They  like  him. 

"Nah,  they  cain't.  How  kin  they  ?  They  'd  cut 
their  feet  all  to  pieces." 

"They  kin  so.  I  seen  'em  do  it.  The  time  I 
went  with  Uncle  George  I  seen  a  man,  a  Japa- 
nee.  .  .  .  Yes,  sharp.  Cut  paper  with  'em. 
.  .  .  A-a-ah,  I  did  so.  I  guess  I  know  what  I 
seen  an'  what  I  did  n't." 

The  little  boys  breathe  easier,  but  fearing  an 
other  onslaught,  make  all  haste  to  call  attention 
to  the  most  fascinating  one  of  all,  the  picture  of  a 
little  boy  standing  up  on  top  of  his  daddy's  head. 
And,  as  if  that  were  n't  enough,  his  daddy  is 
standing  up  on  a  horse  and  the  horse  is  going 


i8o  BACK  HOME 

round  the  ring  lickety-split.  And,  as  if  these  cir 
cumstances  were  n't  sufficiently  trying,  that  little 
show-boy  is  standing  on  only  one  foot.  The  other 
is  stuck  up  in  the  air  like  five  minutes  to  six,  and 
he  has  hold  of  his  toe  with  his  hand.  I  '11  bet  you 
can't  do  that  just  as  you  are  on  the  ground,  let 
alone  on  your  daddy's  head,  and  him  on  a  horse 
that 's  going  like  sixty.  Now  you  just  try  it  once. 
Just  try  it.  ...  A-a-ah!  Told  you  you 
could  n't. 

Now,  how  the  show-actors  can  do  that  looks 
very  wonderful  to  you.  It  really  is  very  simple. 
I  '11  tell  you  about  it.  All  show-actors  are  born 
double-jointed.  You  have  only  two  hip-joints. 
They  have  four.  And  it 's  the  same  all  over  with 
them.  Where  you  have  only  one  joint,  they  have 
two.  So,  you  see,  the  wonder  is  n't  how  they  can 
bend  themselves  every  which  way,  but  how  they 
can  keep  from  doubling  up  like  a  foot-rule. 

And  another  thing.  Every  day  they  rub  them 
selves  all  over  with  snake-oil.  Snakes  are  all  lim 
ber  and  supple,  and  it  stands  to  reason  that  if  you 
take  and  try  out  their  oil,  which  is  their  express 
essence,  and  then  rub  that  into  your  skin,  it  will 
make  you  supple  and  limber,  too.  I  should  think 


CIRCUS   DAY  181 

garter-snakes  would  do  all  right,  if  you  could 
catch  enough  of  them,  but  they  're  so  awfully 
scarce.  Fish-worms  won't  do.  I  tried  'em. 
There 's  no  grease  in  'em  at  all.  They  just  dry  up. 

And  I  suppose  you  know  the  reason  why  they 
stay  on  the  horse's  back.  They  have  rosin  on 
their  feet.  Did  you  ever  stand  up  on  a  horse's 
back  ?  I  did.  It  was  out  to  grandpap's,  on  old 
Tib.  .  .  .  No,  not  very  long.  I  did  n't  have 
any  rosin  on  my  feet.  I  was  going  to  put  some  on, 
but  my  Uncle  Jimmy  said:  "Hay!  What  you  got 
there?"  I  told  him.  "Well,"  he  says,  "you  jist 
mosey  right  into  the  house  and  put  that  back  in 
the  fiddle-box  where  you  got  it.  Go  on,  now. 
And  if  I  catch  you  foolin'  with  my  things  again, 
I'll.  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  will  do 
to  you."  So  I  put  it  back.  Anyhow,  I  don't  think 
rosin  would  have  helped  me  stay  on  a  second 
longer,  because  old  Tib,  with  an  intelligence  you 
would  n't  have  suspected  in  her,  walked  under 
the  wagon-shed  and  calmly  scraped  me  off  her 
back. 

And  did  you  ever  try  to  walk  the  tight-rope  ? 
You  take  the  clothes-line  and  stretch  it  in  the 
grape-arbor  —  better  not  make  it  too  high  at 


i8i  BACK  HOME 

first  —  and  then  you  take  the  clothes-prop  for  a 
balance-pole  and  go  right  ahead  —  er  —  er 
as  far  as  you  can.  The  real  reason  why  you  fall  off 
so  is  that  you  don't  have  chalk  on  your  shoes. 
Got  to  have  lots  of  chalk.  Then  after  you  get 
used  to  the  rope  wabbling  so  all-fired  fast,  you 
can  do  it  like  a  mice.  And  while  I  'm  about  it,  I 
might  as  well  tell  you  that  if  you  ever  expect  to 
amount  to  a  hill  of  beans  as  a  trapeze  performer 
you  must  have  clear-starch  with  oil  of  cloves  in  it 
to  rub  on  your  hands.  Finest  thing  in  the  world. 
My  mother  would  n't  let  me  have  any.  She  said 
she  could  n't  have  me  messing  around  that  way, 
I  blame  her  as  much  as  anybody  that  I  am  not 
now  a  competent  performer  on  the  trapeze. 

I  don't  know  that  I  had  better  go  into  details 
about  the  state  of  mind  boys  are  in  from  the  time 
the  bills  are  first  put  up  until  after  the  circus  has 
actually  departed.  I  don't  mean  the  boys  that  get 
to  go  to  everything  that  comes  along,  and  that 
have  pennies  to  spend  for  candy,  and  all  like 
that,  whenever  they  ask  for  it.  I  mean  the  regu 
lar,  proper,  natural  boys,  that  used  to  be  "Back 
Home,"  boys  whose  daddies  tormented  them 
with:  "Well,  we  '11  see  -  "  that 's  so  exasperat- 


Old  Tib  .     .     .  walked  through  the  wagon-shed,  and  calmly 
scraped  me  off  her  back  " 


CIRCUS    DAY  183 

ing!  —  or,  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  tease,  when 
you  know  we  can't  spare  the  money  just  at  pres 
ent."  A  perfectly  foolish  answer,  that  last.  They 
had  money  to  fritter  away  at  the  grocery,  and 
the  butcher-shop,  and  the  dry-goods  store,  but 
when  it  came  to  a  necessity  of  life,  such  as  going 
to  the  circus,  they  let  on  they  could  n't  afford  it. 
A  likely  story. 

"Only  jist  this  little  bit  of  a  once.  Aw,  now, 
please.  Please,  cain't  I  go  ?  Aw  now,  I  think  you 
might.  Aw  now,  woncha  ?  Aw,  paw.  I  ain't  been 
to  a  reely  show  for  ever  so  long.  Aw,  the  Scrip 
ture  pammer-ammer,  that  don't  count.  Aw,  paw. 
Please  cain't  I  go?  Aw,  please!"  And  so  forth 
and  so  on,  with  much  more  of  the  same  soit.  No, 
I  can't  go  into  details.  It 's  too  terrible. 

Even  those  of  us  whose  daddies  said  plainly 
and  positively:  "Now,  I  can't  let  you  go.  No, 
Willie.  That 's  the  end  of  it.  You  can't  go."  Even 
those,  I  say,  hoped  against  hope.  It  simply  could 
not  be  that  what  the  human  heart  so  ardently 
longed  for  should  be  denied  by  a  loving  father. 
This  same  conviction  applies  to  other  things, 
even  when  we  are  grown  up.  It  is  against  nature 
and  the  constituted  scheme  of  things  that  we 


1 84  BACK  HOME 

cannot  have  what  we  want  so  badly.  (And,  in 
general,  it  may  be  said  that  we  can  have  almost 
anything  we  want,  if  we  only  want  it  hard 
enough.  That's  the  trouble  with  us:  We  don't 
want  it  hard  enough.)  We  boys  lay  there  in  the 
shade  and  pulled  the  long  stalks  of  grass  and  nib 
bled  off  the  sweet,  yellow  ends,  as  we  dramatized 
miracles  that  could  happen  just  as  well  as  not,  if 
they  only  would,  consarn  'em!  For  instance,  you 
might  be  going  along  the  street,  not  thinking  of 
anything  but  how  much  you  wanted  to  go  to  the 
circus,  and  how  sorry  you  were  because  you 
had  n't  the  money,  and  your  daddy  would  n't 
give  you  any;  and  first  thing  you  'd  know,  you  'd 
stub  your  toe  on  something,  and  you'd  look  down 
and  there  Jd  be  a  half  a  dollar  that  somebody  had 
lost  —  Gee!  If  it  would  only  be  that  way!  But 
we  knew  it  would  n't,  because  only  the  other 
Sunday,  Brother  Longenecker  had  said:  "The 
age  of  miracles  is  past."  So  we  had  to  give  up  all 
hopes.  Oh,  it 's  terrible.  Just  terrible! 

But  some  of  the  boys  lay  there  in  the  grass 
with  their  hands  under  their  heads,  looking  up 
at  the  sky,  and  making  little  white  spots  come  in 
and  out  on  the  corners  of  their  jaws,  they  had 


CIRCUS   DAY  185 

their  teeth  set  so  hard,  and  were  chewing  so 
fiercely.  You  could  almost  hear  their  minds 
creak,  scheming,  scheming,  scheming.  I  suppose 
there  were  ways  for  boys  to  make  money  in  those 
times,  but  they  always  fizzled  out  when  you  came 
to  try  them,  to  say  nothing  of  the  way  they  broke 
into  your  day.  Why,  you  had  scarcely  any  time  to 
play  in.  You  'd  go  'round  to  some  neighbor's 
house  with  a  magazine,  and  you  'd  say:  "Good- 
afternoon,  Mrs.  Slaymaker.  Do  you  want  to  sub 
scribe  for  this  ?"  Just  the  way  you  had  studied 
out  you  would  say.  And  she  'd  take  it,  and  go 
sit  down  with  it,  and  read  it  clear  through  while 
you  played  with  the  dog,  and  then  when  she  got 
all  through  with  it,  and  had  read  all  the  adver 
tisements,  she  'd  hand  it  back  to  you  and  say: 
No,  she  did  n't  believe  she  would.  They  had  so 
many  books  and  papers  now  that  she  did  n't  get 
a  chance  hardly  to  read  in  any  of  them,  let  alone 
taking  any  new  ones.  Were  you  getting  many 
new  subscribers  ?  Just  commenced,  eh  ?  Well, 
she  wished  you  all  the  luck  in  the  world.  How 
was  your  ma  ?  That 's  good.  Did  she  hear  from 
your  Uncle  John's  folks  since  they  moved  out  to 
Kansas  ? 


186  BACK  HOME 

I  have  heard  that  there  were  boys  who,  under 
the  dire  necessity  of  going  to  the  circus,  got  to 
gether  enough  rags,  old  iron,  and  bottles  to  make 
up  the  price,  sold  'em,  collected  the  money,  and 
went.  I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  it.  We  all 
had,  hidden  under  the  back  porch,  our  treasure- 
heap  of  rusty  grates,  cracked  fire-pots,  broken 
griddles  and  lid-lifters,  tub-hoops  and  pokers, 
but  I  do  not  believe  that  any  human  boy  ever 
collected  fifty  cents'  worth.  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  fifty  cents  is  a  whole  lot  of  money,  par 
ticularly  when  it  is  laid  out  in  scrap-iron.  Only 
the  tin-wagon  takes  rags,  and  they  pay  in  tin 
ware,  and  that  's  no  good  to  a  boy  that  wants  to  go 
to  the  circus.  And  as  for  bottles  —  well,  sir,  you 
wash  out  a  whole,  whole  lot  of  bottles,  a  whole 
big  lot  of  'em,  a  wash-basket  full,  and  tote  'em 
down  to  Mr.  Case's  drug-  and  book-store,  as 
much  as  ever  you  and  your  brother  can  wag,  and 
see  what  he  gives  you.  It 's  simply  scandalous. 
You  have  no  idea  of  how  mean  and  stingy  a  man 
can  be  until  you  try  to  sell  him  old  bottles.  And 
the  cold-hearted  way  in  which  he  will  throw  back 
ink-bottles  that  you  worked  so  hard  to  clean,  and 
the  ones  that  have  reading  blown  into  the  glass 


CIRCUS   DAY  187 

-  Oh,  it 's  enough  to  set  you  against  business 
transactions  all  your  life  long.  There  's  some 
thing  about  bargain  and  sale  that 's  mean  and 
censorious,  finding  this  fault  and  finding  that 
fault,  and  paying  just  as  little  as  ever  they  can.  It 
gets  on  one's  nerves.  It  really  does. 

The  boys  that  made  the  little  white  spots  come 
on  the  corners  of  their  jaws  as  they  lay  there  in 
the  grass,  scheming,  scheming,  scheming, 
planned  rags,  and  bottles,  and  scrap-iron,  and 
more  also.  Sometimes  it  was  a  plan  so  much  big 
ger  that  if  they  had  kept  it  to  themselves,  like 
the  darkey's  cow,  they  would  have  "  all  swole  up 
and  died." 

"Sst!  Come  here  once.  Tell  you  sumpum. 
Now  don't  you  go  and  blab  it  out,  now  will  you  ? 
Hope  to  die  ?  Well.  .  .  .  Now,  no  kiddin'. 
Cross  your  heart  ?  Well.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  will, 
too.  I  know  you.  You  go  and  tattle  everything 
you  hear.  .  .  .  Well.  .  .  .  Cheese  it! 
Here  comes  somebody.  Make  out  we  're  talkin' 
about  sumpum  else.  Ah,  he  did,  did  he?  What  for, 
I  wonder?  (Say  sumpum,  can't  ye  ?)  .  .  . 
Why  'n't  ye  say  sumpum  when  he  was  goin'  by  ? 
Now  he  '11  suspicion  sumpum  's  up,  and  nose 


1 88  BACK  HOME 

around  till  he.  ...  Aw,  they  ain't  no  use 
tellin'  you  anything.  .  .  .  Well.  .  .  . 
Put  your  head  over  so  's  I  can  whisper.  .  .  . 
Sure  I  am.  .  .  .  Well,  I  could  learn, 
could  n't  I  ?  Now  don't  you  tell  a  living  soul,  will 
you  ?  If  anybody  asts  you,  you  tell  'em  you  don't 
know  anything  at  all  about  it.  Say,  why  'n't  you 
come  along?  I  promised  you  the  last  time. 
.  .  .  That 's  jist  your  mother  callin'  you. 
Let  on  you  don't  hear  her.  Aw,  stay.  .  .  . 
Aw,  you  don't  either  have  to  go. Say  .  Less  you 
and  me  get  up  early,  and  go  see  the  circus  come 
in  town,  will  you  ?  I  will,  if  you  will.  All  right. 
Remember  now.  Don't  you  tell  anybody  what  I 
told  you.  You  know." 


If  a  fellow  just  only  could  run  off  with  a  cir 
cus!  Would  n't  it  be  great?  No  more  splitting 
kindling  and  carrying  in  coal;  no  more:  "Hurry 
up,  now,  or  you  '11  be  late  for  school;"  no  more 
poking  along  in  a  humdrum  existence,  never  go 
ing  any  place  or  seeing  anything,  but  the  glad, 
free,  untrammeled  life,  the  life  of  a  circus-boy, 
standing  up  on  top  of  somebody's  head  (you 


CIRCUS  DAY  189 

could  pretend  he  was  your  daddy.  Who  'd  ever 
know  the  difference  ? )  and  your  leg  stuck  up  like 
five  minutes  to  six,  and  him  standing  on  top  of  a 
horse  —  and  the  horse  going  around  the  ring, 
and  the  ring-master  cracking  his  whip  —  aw,  say! 
How  about  it  ? 

Maybe  the  show-people  would  take  you  even 
if  you  did  n't  have  two  joints  to  common  folks' 
one,  and  had  n't  had  early  advantages  in  the  way 
of  plenty  of  snakes  to  try  the  grease  out  of.  And 
then  .  .  .  and  then.  .  .  .  Travel  all 
around,  and  be  in  a  new  town  every  day!  And 
see  things!  The  water-works,  and  Main  Street, 
and  the  Soldiers'  Monument,  and  the  Second 
Presbyterian  Church.  All  the  sights  there  are  to 
see  in  strange  places.  And  then  when  the  show 
came  back  to  your  own  home-town  next  year, 
people  would  wonder  whose  was  that  slim  and 
gracile  figure  in  the  green  silk  tights  and  span 
gled  breech-clout  that  capered  so  nimbly  on  the 
bounding  courser's  back,  that  switched  the  natty 
switch  and  shrilly  called  out:  "Hep!  Hep!" 
They  'd  screw  up  their  eyes  to  look  hard,  and 
they  'd  say:  "Yes,  sir.  It  is.  It 's  him.  It 's  Willie 
Bigelow.  Well,  of  all  things!"  And  they  'd  clap 


1 90  BACK   HOME 

their  hands,  and  be  so  proud  of  you.  And  they  Jd 
wonder  how  it  was  that  they  could  have  been  so 
blind  to  your  many  merits  when  they  had  you 
with  them.  They  'd  feel  sorry  that  they  ever  said 
you  were  a  "regular  little  imp,"  if  ever  there  was 
one,  and  that  you  had  the  Old  Boy  in  you  as  big 
as  a  horse.  They  'd  feel  ashamed  of  themselves, 
so  they  would.  And  they  'd  come  and  apologize 
to  you  for  the  way  they  had  acted,  and  you  'd 
say:  "Oh,  that 's  all  right.  Forgive  and  forget." 
.  .  .  And  they  'd  miss  you  at  home,  too. 
Your  daddy  would  wish  he  had  n't  whaled  you 
the  way  he  did,  just  for  nothing  at  all.  .  .  . 
And  your  mother,  too,  she  'd  be  sorry  for  the 
way  she  acted  to  you,  tormenting  the  life  and  soul 
out  of  you,  sending  you  on  errands  just  when  you 
got  a  man  in  the  king  row,  and  making  you  wash 
your  feet  in  a  bucket  before  you  went  to  bed,  in 
stead  of  being  satisfied  to  let  you  pump  on  them, 
as  any  reasonable  mother  would.  She  '11  think 
about  that  when  you  're  gone.  It  '11  be  lonesome 
then,  with  nobody  to  bang  the  doors,  and  upset 
the  cream-pitcher  on  the  clean  table-cloth,  and 
fall  over  backward  in  the  rocking-chair  and 
break  a  rocker  off.  Your  daddy  will  sigh  and  say: 


CIRCUS    DAY  191 

"I  wonder  where  Willie  is  to-night.  Poor  boy,  I 
sometimes  fear  I  was  too  harsh  with  him."  And 
your  mother  will  try  to  keep  back  her  tears,  but 
she  can't,  and  first  thing  she  knows  she  '11  burst 
out  crying,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and 
old  Maje  will  go  around  the  house  looking  for 
you,  and  whining  because  he  can't  find  his  little 
playmate.  ...  It  will  seem  as  if  you  were 
dead  —  dead  to  them,  and.  .  .  .  Smf !  Smf ! 

(Confound  that  orchestra  leader  anyhow! 
How  many  times  have  I  got  to  tell  him  that  this  is 
the  music-cue  for  "Where  is  My  Wandering  Boy 
To-night?") 

We  were  all  going  to  get  up  early  enough  to 
see  the  show  come  in  at  the  depot.  Very  few  of  us 
did  it.  Somehow  we  could  n't  seem  to  wake  up. 
Here  and  there  a  hardy  spirit  compasses  the  feat. 

All  the  town  is  asleep  when  this  boy  slips  out 
of  his  front-gate  and  snicks  the  latch  behind  him 
softly.  It  is  very  still,  so  still  that  though  he  is 
more  than  a  mile  away  from  the  railroad  he  can 
hear  Johnny  Mara,  the  night  yardmaster,  bawl 
out:  "Run  them  three  empties  over  on  Number 
Four  track!"  the  short  exhaust  of  the  obedient 
pony-engine,  and  the  succeeding  crash  of  the  cars 


192  BACK   HOME 

as  they  bump  against  their  fellows.  It  is  very  still, 
scarey  still.  The  gas-lamp  flaring  and  flickering 
among  the  green  maples  at  the  corner  has  a 
strange  look  to  him.  His  footfalls  on  the  sidewalk 
sound  so  loud  he  takes  the  soft  middle  of  the 
dusty  road.  He  hears  some  one  pursuing  him 
and  his  bosom  contracts  with  fear,  as  he  stands 
to  see  who  it  is.  Although  he  hardly  knows  the 
boy  bound  on  the  same  errand  as  his,  he  takes 
him  to  his  heart,  as  a  chosen  friend.  They  are 
kin. 

On  the  freight-house  platform  they  find  other 
boys.  Some  of  them  have  waited  up  all  night  so 
as  not  to  miss  it.  They  are  from  across  the  tracks. 
They  have  all  the  fun,  those  fellows  do.  They 
can  swear  and  chew  tobacco,  and  play  hookey 
from  school  and  have  a  good  time.  They  get  to 
go  barefoot  before  anybody  else,  and  nobody  tells 
them  it  will  thin  their  blood  to  go  in  swimming  so 
much.  Yes,  and  they  can  fight,  too.  They  'd  soon 
er  fight  than  eat.  Our  boys,  conscious  of  inferior 
ity,  keep  to  themselves.  The  boys  from  across 
the  tracks  show  off  all  the  bad  words  they  can 
think  of.  One  of  them  has  a  mouth-harp  which 
he  plays  upon,  now  and  then  opening  his  hands 


CIRCUS   DAY  193 

hollowed  around  the  instrument.  Patsy  Gubbins 
dances  to  the  music,  which  is  a  thing  even  more 
reckless  and  daredevil  than  swearing.  Patsy  's 
going  with  a  "troupe"  some  day.  Or  else,  he  's 
going  to  get  a  job  firing  on  an  engine.  He  is  n't 
right  sure  which  he  wants  to  do  the  most. 

Now  and  then  a  brakeman  goes  by  swinging 
his  lantern.  The  boys  would  like  to  ask  him  what 
time  it  is,  but  for  one  thing  they  're  too  bashful. 
Being  a  brakeman  is  almost  as  good  as  going 
with  a  "troupe"  or  a  circus.  You  get  to  go  to 
places  that  way,  too,  Marysville,  and  Mechan- 
icsburg,  and  Harrod's  —  that  is,  if  you  're  on 
the  local  freight,  and  then  you  lay  over  in  Cin 
cinnati.  Some  ways  it 's  better  than  firing,  and 
some  ways  it  is  n't  so  good.  And  then  there  is  an 
other  reason  why  they  don't  ask  the  brakeman 
what  time  it  is.  He  'd  say  it  was  "forty-five"  or 
maybe  "  fifty-three,"  and  never  tell  what  hour. 

"Say!  Do  you  know  it 's  cold  ?  You  would  n't 
think  it  would  be  so  cold  in  the  summer-time." 

The  maple-trees,  from  being  formless  blobs, 
insensibly  begin  to  look  like  lace-work.  Present 
ly  the  heavens  and  the  earth  are  bathed  in  liquid 
blue  that  casts  a  spell  so  potent  on  the  soul  of 


i94  BACK  HOME 

him  that  sees  it  that  he  yearns  for  something  he 
knows  not  what,  except  that  it  is  utterly  beyond 
him,  as  far  beyond  him  as  what  he  means  to  be 
will  be  from  what  he  shall  attain  to.  One  dreams 
of  romance  and  renown,  of  all  that  should  be  and 
is  not.  And  as  he  dreams  the  birds  awaken.  In 
the  East  there  comes  a  greenish  tinge.  Far  up  the 
track  there  is  a  sullen  roar,  and  then  the  hoarse 
diapason  of  an  engine  whistle.  The  roar 
strengthens  and  strengthens.  It  is  the  circus 
train. 

Under  the  witchcraft  of  the  dreaming  blue, 
each  boy  had  a  firm  and  stubborn  purpose.  Over 
and  over  again  he  rehearsed  how  he  would  go  up 
to  the  man  that  runs  the  show,  and  say:  "  Please, 
mister,  can  I  go  with  you  ?"  And  the  man  would 
say,  "Yes."  (As  easy  as  that.)  But  the  purpose 
wavered  as  he  saw  the  roustabouts  come  tum 
bling  out,  all  frowsy  and  unwashed,  rubbing  the 
sleep  out  of  their  eyes,  cross  and  savage.  And  the 
man  whose  word  they  jump  to  obey,  he  ... 
he  's  kind  of  discouraging.  It 's  all  business  with 
him.  The  fellows  may  plead  with  their  eyes;  he 
never  sees  them.  If  he  does,  he  tells  them  where 
to  get  to  out  of  that  and  how  quick  he  wants  it 


CIRCUS   DAY  195 

done,  in  language  that  makes  the  boldest  efforts 
of  the  boys  from  across  the  tracks  seem  puny  in 
comparison.  The  lads  divide  into  two  parties. 
One  follows  the  buggy  of  the  boss  canvasman  to 
Vandeman's  lots  where  the  stand  is  made.  They 
will  witness  the  spectacle  of  the  raising  of  the 
tents,  but  they  will  also  be  near  the  man  that 
runs  the  show,  and  if  all  goes  well  it  may  be  he 
will  like  your  looks  and  saunter  up  to  you  and 
say:  "Well,  bub,  and  how  would  you  like  to 
travel  with  us?"  You  don't  know.  Things  not 
half  so  strange  as  that  have  happened.  And  if 
you  were  right  there  at  the  time. 

The  other  party  lingers  awhile  looking  up  wist 
fully  at  the  unresponsive  windows  of  the  sleep 
ing-cars,  behind  which  are  the  happy  circus- 
actors.  Perhaps  the  show-boy  that  stands  up 
on  top  of  his  daddy's  head  will  look  out.  If  he 
should  raise  the  window  and  smile  at  you,  and 
get  to  talking  with  you  maybe  he  would  intro 
duce  you  to  his  pa,  and  tell  him  that  you 
would  like  to  go  with  the  show,  and  his  pa  would 
be  a  nice  sort  of  a  man,  and  he  'd  say:  "Why, 
yes.  I  guess  we  can  fix  that  all  right."  And  there 
you  'd  be. 


196  BACK  HOME 

Or  if  it  did  n't  come  out  like  that,  why,  maybe 
the  boy  would  be  another  "  Little  Arthur,  the  Boy 
Circus-rider,"  like  it  told  about  in  The  Ladies' 
Repository.  It  seems  there  was  a  man,  and  one 
day  he  went  by  where  there  was  a  circus,  and  in 
a  quiet  secluded,  vine-clad  nook  only  a  few  steps 
from  the  main  tent,  he  heard  somebody  sigh,  oh, 
so  sadly  and  so  pitifully!  Come  to  find  out,  it  was 
Little  Arthur,  the  Boy  Circus-rider.  He  had  large 
sensitive  violet  eyes,  and  a  wealth  of  clustering 
ringlets,  and  he  was  very,  very  unhappy.  So  the 
man  took  from  his  pocket  a  Bible  that  he  hap 
pened  to  have  with  him,  and  he  read  from  it  to 
Little  Arthur,  which  cheered  him  up  right  away, 
because  up  to  that  moment  he  had  only  heard  of 
the  Bible.  (Think  of  that!)  And  that  night  at  the 
show,  what  do  you  s'pose  ?  Little  Arthur  fell  off" 
the  horse  and  hurt  himself.  And  this  man  was  at 
the  show  and  he  went  back  in  the  dressing-room, 
and  held  Little  Arthur's  hand.  And  the  clown 
was  crying,  and  the  actors  were  crying,  for  they 
all  loved  Little  Arthur  in  their  rude,  untutored 
way.  And  Little  Arthur  opened  his  large  sensi 
tive  violet  eyes,  and  saw  the  man,  and  said  off 
the  text  that  the  man  taught  him  that  afternoon. 


CIRCUS  DAY  197 

And  then  he  died.  It  was  a  sad  story,  but  it  made 
you  wish  it  had  been  you  that  happened  to  have 
a  Bible  in  your  pocket  as  you  passed  the  secluded, 
vine-clad  nook  only  a  few  paces  from  the  main 
tent,  and  had  heard  Little  Arthur  sigh  so  piti 
fully.  It  was  those  sensitive  eyes  we  looked  for  in 
the  sleeping-car  windows,  and  all  in  vain.  I  think 
I  saw  the  wealth  of  clustering  ringlets,  or  at  least 
the  makings  of  it.  I  am  almost  positive  I  saw 
curl-papers  as  the  curtain  was  drawn  aside  a 
moment. 

But  whether  a  boy  stands  gazing  at  the  sleep 
ers,  or  runs  over  to  the  lots,  there  is  something  pa 
thetic  about  it,  something  almost  terrible.  It  is 
the  death  of  an  ideal.  I  can't  conceive  of  a  boy 
coming  down  to  the  depot  to  see  the  circus  train 
come  in  another  time.  Hitherto,  the  show  has 
been  to  him  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  romance.  It  comes 
in  the  night  from  'way  off  yonder;  it  goes  in  the 
night  to  'way  off  yonder.  It  is  all  splendor,  all 
deeds  of  high  emprise.  It  stands  to  reason  then, 
that  the  closer  you  get  to  it,  the  closer  you  get  to 
pure  romance.  And  it  is  n't  that  way  at  all. 

What  gravels  a  boy  the  most  of  all  is  to  have  to 
do  the  same  old  thing  over  and  over  again,  day 


1 98  BACK  HOME 

after  day,  week  in,  week  out.  Once  he  has  seen 
the  circus  come  in,  he  cannot  blind  himself  to  the 
fact  that  everything  is  marked  and  numbered; 
that  all  is  system,  and  that  everything  is  done  to 
day  exactly  as  it  was  done  yesterday,  and  as  it 
will  be  done  to-morrow. 

"What  town  is  this  ?"  he  hears  a  man  inquire 
of  another. 

"  Blest  if  I  know.  What 's  the  odds  what  town 
it  is?" 

Did  n't  know  what  town  it  was !  Did  nt  care! 

The  keen  morning  air,  or  something,  makes  a 
fellow  mighty  unromantic,  too.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  thin  blue  wood-smoke  from  the  field-stoves, 
and  the  smell  of  the  hot  coffee  and  the  victuals 
the  waiters  are  carrying  about,  some  to  the  tent 
where  the  bare  tables  are  for  the  canvasmen, 
some  to  the  table  covered  with  a  red  and  white 
table-cloth  as  befits  performers.  These  have  no 
rosy  cheeks.  Their  lithe  limbs  are  not  richly 
decked  with  silken  tights.  Insensibly  the  upper 
lip  curls.  They  're  not  so  much.  They  're  only 
folks.  That 's  all,  just  folks. 

But  when  ideals  die,  great  truths  are  born.  To 
such  a  boy  at  such  a  moment  there  comes  the 


CIRCUS   DAY  199 

firm  conviction  which  increasing  years  can  only 
emphasize:  Home  is  but  a  poor  prosaic  place, 
but  Home  —  Ah,  my  brother,  think  on  this  - 
Home  is  where  Breakfast  is. 

"  Hay !  Wait  for  me,  you  fellows !  Hay !  Hold  on 
a  minute.  Well,  ain't  I  a-comin'  jis'  's  fast 's  ever 
I  kin  ?  What 's  your  rush  ?" 

It  is  the  exceptional  boy  has  this  experience. 
The  normal  one  preserves  the  delicate  bloom  of 
romance,  by  never  seeing  the  show  until  it  makes 
its  Grand  Triumphal  Entree  in  a  Pageant  of 
Unparalleled  Magnificence  far  Surpassing  the 
Pomp  and  Splendor  of  Oriental  Potentates. 

The  hitching-posts  are  full  of  whinnering 
country  horses,  and  people  are  in  town  you 
would  n't  think  existed  if  you  had  n't  seen  their 
pictures  in  Puck  and  Judge,  people  from  over  by 
Muchinippi,  and  out  Noodletoozy  way,  big,  red 
necked  men  with  the  long  loping  step  that  comes 
from  wralking  on  the  plowed  ground.  Following 
them  are  lanky  women  with  their  front  teeth 
gone,  and  their  figures  bowed  by  drudgery, 
dragging  wide-eyed  children  whose  uncouth 
finery  betrays  the  "  country  jake,"  even  if  the 
freckles  and  the  sun-bleached  hair  could  keep  the 


200  BACK  HOME 

secret.  From  the  far-off  fastnesses,  where  there  are 
still  log-cabins  chinked  with  mud,  they  have  ven 
tured  to  see  the  show  come  into  town,  and  when 
they  have  seen  that,  they  will  retire  again  beyond 
our  ken.  How  every  sense  is  numbed  and  stun 
ned  by  the  magnificence  and  splendor  of  the 
painted  and  gilded  wagons  as  they  rumble  past, 
the  driver  rolling  and  pitching  in  his  seat,  as  he 
handles  the  ribbons  of  eight  horses  all  at  once! 
The  farmer's  heart  is  filled  with  admiration  of 
his  craft,  as  much  as  the  children's  hearts  are  at 
the  gaudy  pictures. 

The  allegorical  tableau-car  solemnly  waggles 
past,  Europe,  and  Asia,  and  Africa,  and  Australia 
brilliant  in  grease-paint  and  gorgeous  cheese 
cloth  robes.  And  can  you  guess  who  the  fat  lady 
is  up  on  the  very  tip-top  of  all,  on  the  tip-top 
where  the  wobble  is  the  worst  ?  Our  own  Colum 
bia!  It  must  be  fine  to  ride  around  that  way  all 
dressed  up  in  a  flag.  But  a  sourer  lot  of  faces  you 
never  saw  in  your  life.  No.  I  am  wrong.  For 
downright  melancholy  and  despondency  you 
must  wait  till  the  funny  old  clown  comes  along 
in  his  little  bit  of  a  buggy  drawn  by  a  little  bit  of  a 
donkey. 


CIRCUS   DAY  201 

"And,  oh,  looky!  Here  comes  the  elephants, 
just  the  same  as  in  the  joggerfy  books.  And  see 
the  men  walking  beside  them.  They  come  from 
the  place  the  elephants  do.  See,  they  have  on  the 
clothes  they  wear  in  that  country.  Don't  they 
look  proud  ?  Who  would  n't  be  proud  to  get  to 
walk  with  an  elephant  ?  And  if  you  ever  do  any 
thing  to  an  elephant  to  make  him  mad,  he  '11 
always  remember  it,  and  some  day  he'll  get  even 
with  you.  One  time  there  was  a  man,  and  he  gave 
an  elephant  a  chew  of  tobacco,  and  —  O-o-ooh ! 
See  that  man  in  the  cage  with  the  lions !  Don't 
it  just  make  the  cold  chills  run  over  you  ?  I 
would  n't  be  there  for  a  million  dollars,  would 
you,  ma  ? 

"What  they  laughing  at  down  the  street  ?  Ma, 
make  Lizzie  get  down;  she  's  right  in  my  way.  I 
don't  want  to  see  it  pretty  soon.  I  want  to  see  it 
naow!  Oh,  ain't  it  funny  ?  See  the  old  clowns 
playing  on  horns !  Ain't  it  too  killing  ?  Aw,  look 
at  them  ponies.  I  woosht  I  had  one.  Johnny  Pym 
has  got  a  goat  he  can  hitch  up.  What  was  that, 
pa  ?  What  was  that  went  'Oo-OOoomh!'" 

"Whoa,  Nell,  whoa  there!  Steady,  gal,  stead- 
ay!  Ho,  there!  Ho!  Whoa  —  whoz-bup!  Whad- 


202  BACK  HOME 

dy  y'  about  ?  Fool  horse.  Whoa  .  .  .  whoa 
.  .  .  so,  gal,  so-o-o.  Lion,  I  guess,  or  a  tagger, 
or  sumpum  or  other." 

And  talk  about  music.  You  thought  the  band 
was  grand.  You  just  wait.  Don't  you  hear  it 
down  the  street  ?  It  '11  be  along  in  a  minute  now. 
.  .  .  There  it  is.  That 's  the  cally-ope.  That's 
what  the  show  bills  call:  "The  Steam  Car  of  the 
Muses."  .  .  .  Mm-well,  I  don't  know  but 
it  is  just  a  leetle  off  the  pitch,  especially  towards 
the  end  of  a  note,  but  you  must  remember  that 
you  can't  haul  a  very  big  boiler  on  a  wagon,  and 
the  whistles  let  out  an  awful  lot  of  steam.  It  ys 
pretty  hard  to  keep  the  pressure  even.  But  it 's 
loud.  That 's  the  main  thing.  And  the  man  that 
plays  on  it  —  no,  not  that  fellow  in  the  overalls 
with  a  wad  of  greasy  waste  in  his  hand.  He  's 
only  the  engineer.  I  mean  the  artist,  the  man 
that  plays  on  the  keys.  Well,  he  knows  what  the 
people  want.  He  has  his  fingers  on  the  public 
pulse.  Does  he  give  them  a  Bach  fugue,  or  Guill- 
mant's"  Grand  Choeur?"  'Deed,  he  does  n't. 
He  goes  right  to  the  heart,  with  "  Patrick's  Day 
in  the  Morning,"  and  "The  Carnival  of  Venice," 
and  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  "Oh,  Where, 


CIRCUS  DAY  203 

Oh  Where  has  my  Little  Dog  Gone  ? "  He  knows 
his  business.  A  shade  off  the  key,  perhaps,  but 
my!  Ain't  it  grand  ?  So  loud  and  nice! 

"Well,  that 's  all  of  it.  ...  Why,  child, 
I  can't  make  it  any  longer  than  it  is.  ... 
What  do  you  want  me  to  drive  round  into  the 
other  street  for  ?  You  've  seen  all  there  is  to  see. 
Got  all  your  trading  done,  mother  ?  Well,  then  I 
expect  we  'd  better  put  for  home.  Now,  Eddy,  I 
told  you  'No'  once,  and  that's  the  end  of  it. 
Hush  up  now!  Look  here,  sir!  Do  you  want  me 
to  take  and  'tend  to  you  right  before  everybody  ? 
Well,  I  will  now,  if  I  hear  another  whimper  out 
o'  ye.  Ck-ck-ck!  Git  ep  there,  Nelly." 

Some  day,  when  we  get  big,  and  have  whole, 
whole  lots  of  money  we  're  going  to  the  circus 
every  time  it  comes  to  town,  to  the  real  circus, 
the  one  you  have  to  pay  to  get  into.  For  if  merely 
the  street  parade  is  so  magnificent,  what  must 
the  show  itself  be  ? 


How  people  can  sit  at  the  table  on  circus  day 
and  stuff,  and  stuff  the  way  they  do  is  more  than 
I  can  understand.  You  'd  think  they  had  n't  any 


204  BACK  HOME 

more  chances  to  eat  than  they  had  to  go  to  the 
show.  And  they  can  find  more  things  to  do  before 
they  get  started!  And  then,  after  the  house  is  all 
locked  up  and  everything,  they  've  got  to  go  back 
after  a  handkerchief!  What  does  anybody  want 
with  a  handkerchief  at  a  circus  ? 

It 's  exasperating  enough  to  have  to  choose 
between  going  in  the  afternoon  and  not  going  at 
all.  Why,  sure,  it 's  finer  at  night.  Lots  finer.  You 
know  that  kind  of  a  light  the  peanut-roaster  man 
has  got  down  by  the  post-office.  Burns  that  kind 
of  stuff  they  use  to  take  out  grease-spots.  Ye-ah. 
Gasoline.  Well,  at  the  circus  at  night,  they  don't 
have  just  one  light  like  that,  but  bunches  and 
bunches  of  them  on  the  tent-poles.  No,  silly!  Of 
course  not.  Of  course  they  don't  set  the  tent  afire. 
But  say!  What  if  they  did,  eh  ?  The  place  would 
be  all  full  of  people,  laughing  at  the  country 
jake  that  comes  out  to  ride  the  trick-mule,  and 
you  'd  happen  to  look  up  and  see  where  the  can 
vas  was  ju-u-ust  beginning  to  blaze,  and  you  'd 
jump  up  and  holler:  "Fire!  Fire!"  as  loud  as 
ever  you  could  because  you  saw  it  first,  and  you  'd 
point  to  the  place.  Excitement  ?  Well,  I  guess  yes. 
The  people  would  all  run  every  which  way,  and 


CIRCUS   DAY  205 

fall  all  over  themselves,  and  the  women  would 
squeal  —  And  do  you  know  what  I  'd  do  ?  I  'd 
just  let  myself  down  between  the  kind  of  bed- 
slat  benches,  and  drop  to  the  ground,  and  lift  up 
the  canvas  and  there  I  'd  be  all  safe.  And  after  I 
was  all  safe,  then  I  'd  go  back  and  rescue  folks. 
.  We-ell,  I  s'pose  I  'd  have  to  rescue  a 
girl.  It  seems  they  always  do  that.  But  it  would 
be  nicer,  I  think,  to  rescue  some  real  rich  man. 
He  'd  say:  "My  noble  preserver!  How  can  I  suf 
ficiently  reward  you  ?"  and  take  out  his  pocket- 
book.  And  I  'd  say:  "Take  back  your  prof 
fered  gold,"  and  make  like  I  was  pushing  it 
away,  "take  back  your  proffered  gold.  I  but  did 
my  duty. "  And  then  I  'd  forget  all  about  it.  And 
one  day,  after  I  *d  forgotten  all  about  it,  the  man 
would  die,  and  will  me  a  million  dollars,  or  a 
thousand,  I  don't  know.  Enough  to  make  me 
rich. 

And  say!  Would  n't  the  animals  get  excited 
when  they  saw  the  show  was  afire  ?  They  'd  just 
roar  and  roar,  and  upset  the  cages,  and  maybe 
they  'd  get  loose.  O-o-o-Oh!  How  about  that  ?  If 
there  was  a  lion  come  at  me  I  'd  climb  a  tree. 
What  would  you  do  ?  Ah,  your  pa's  shot-gun 


206  BACK  HOME 

nothing!  Why,  you  crazy,  that  would  only  in 
furiate  him  the  more.  What  you  want  to  do  is  to 
take  an  express  rifle,  like  Doo  Challoo  did,  and 
aim  right  for  his  heart.  An  express  rifle  is  what 
you  send  off  and  get,  and  they  ship  it  to  you  by 
express. 

So  you  see  what  a  fellow  misses  by  having  to 
go  to  the  show  in  the  afternoon,  like  the  girls  and 
the  a-b-abs.  The  boys  from  across  the  tracks  get 
to  go  at  night.  They  have  all  the  fun.  When  they 
go  they  don't  have  to  poke  along,  and  poke  along, 
and  keep  hold  of  hands  so  as  not  to  get  lost. 
.  .  .  Aw,  hurry  up,  can't  you  ?  Don't  you 
hear  the  band  playing  ?  It  '11  be  all  over  before 
we  get  there. 

But  finally  the  lots  are  reached,  and  there  are 
the  tents,  with  all  kinds  of  flags  snapping  from  the 
center-poles  and  the  guy-ropes.  And  there  are  the 
side-shows.  Alas!  You  never  thought  of  the  side 
shows  when  you  asked  if  you  could  go.  And  now 
it 's  too  late.  It  must  be  fine  in  the  side-shows.  I 
never  got  to  go  to  one.  I  did  n't  have  the  money. 
But  if  the  big,  painted  banners,  bulging  in  and 
out,  as  the  wind  plays  with  them,  are  anything  to 
go  by,  it  must  be  something  grand  to  see  the  Fat 


CIRCUS  DAY  207 

Lady,  and  the  Circassian  Beauty,  whose  frizzled 
head  will  just  about  fit  a  bushel  basket,  and  the 
Armless  Wonder.  They  say  he  can  take  a  pair  of 
scissors  with  his  toes  and  cut  your  picture  out  of 
paper  just  elegant. 

Oh,  and  something  else  you  miss  by  going  in 
the  afternoon.  At  night  you  can  sneak  around  at 
the  back,  and  when  nobody  is  looking  you  can 
just  lift  up  the  canvas  and  go  right  in  for  noth 
ing.  .  .  .  Why,  what 's  wrong  about  that  ? 
Ah,  you  're  too  particular.  .  .  .  And  if  the 
canvasman  catches  you,  you  can  commence 
to  cry  and  say  you  had  only  forty  cents,  and 
wanted  to  see  the  circus  so  bad,  and  he  '11  take 
it  and  let  you  in,  and  you  can  have  ten  cents, 
don't  you  see,  to  spend  for  lemonade,  red 
lemonade,  you  understand,  and  peanuts,  the 
littlest  bags,  and  the  "on-riest"  peanuts  that 
ever  were. 

As  far  as  I  can  see,  the  animal  part  of  the  show 
is  just  the  same  as  it  always  was.  The  people  that 
take  you  to  the  show  always  pretend  to  be  inter 
ested  in  them,  but  it 's  my  belief  they  stop  and 
look  only  to  tease  you.  Away,  'way  back  in  an 
cient  times,  there  used  to  be  a  man  that  took  the 


208  BACK  HOME 

folks  around  and  told  them  what  was  in  each 
cage,  and  where  it  came  from,  and  how  much  it 
cost,  and  what  useful  purpose  it  served  in  the 
wise  economy  of  nature,  and  all  about  it.  That 
was  before  my  time.  But  I  can  recollect  some 
thing  they  had  that  they  don't  have  any  more.  I 
can  remember  when  Mr.  Barnum  first  brought  his 
show  to  our  town.  It  did  n't  take  much  teasing  to 
get  to  go  to  that,  because  in  those  days  Mr.  Bar 
num  was  a  "  biger  man  than  old  Grant."  "The 
Life  of  P.  T.  Barnum,  Written  by  Himself"  was 
on  everybody's  marble-topped  center-table,  just 
the  same  as  "The  History  of  the  Great  Rebel 
lion.  "  You  show  some  elderly  person  from  out  of 
town  the  church  across  the  street  from  the  Astor 
House,  and  say:  "That 's  St.  Paul's  Chapel. 
General  Montgomery's  monument  is  in  the 
chancel  window.  George  Washington  went  to 
meeting  there  the  day  he  was  inaugurated  presi 
dent,"  and  your  friend  will  say:  "M-hm."  But 
you  tell  him  that  right  across  Broadway  is  where 
Barnum's  Museum  used  to  be,  and  he  '11  brighten 
right  up  and  remember  all  about  how  Barnum 
strung  a  flag  across  to  St.  Paul's  steeple  and  what 
a  fuss  the  vestry  of  Trinity  Parish  made.  That 's 


CIRCUS   DAY  209 

something  he  knows  about.   That 's  part  of  the 
history  of  our  country. 

Well,  when  Mr.  Barnum  first  came  to  our 
town,  all  around  one  tent  were  vans  full  of  the 
very  identical  Moral  Waxworks  that  we  had  read 
about,  and  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  ever  seeing 
because  New  York  was  so  far  away.  There  was 
the  Dying  Zouave.  Oh,  that  was  a  beauty!  The 
Advance  Courier  said  that  "the  crimson  torrent 
of  his  heart's  blood  spouted  in  rhythmic  jets  as 
the  tide  of  life  ebbed  silently  away;"  but  I  guess 
by  the  time  they  got  to  our  town  they  must  have 
run  all  out  of  pokeberry  juice,  for  the  "crimson 
torrent"  didn't  spout  at  all.  But  his  bosom 
heaved  every  so  often,  and  he  rolled  up  his  eyes 
something  grand!  I  liked  it,  but  my  mother  said 
it  was  horrid.  That 's  the  way  with  women.  They 
don't  like  anything  that  anybody  else  does. 
There  's  no  pleasing  'em.  And  she  thought  the 
Drunkard's  Family  was  "  kind  o'  low. "  It  was  n't 
either.  It  was  fine,  and  taught  a  great  moral 
lesson.  I  told  her  so,  but  she  said  it  was  low,  just 
the  same.  She  thought  the  Temperance  Family 
was  nice,  but  it  was  n't  anywhere  near  as  good  as 
the  Drunkard's  Family.  Why,  let  me  tell  you.  The 


2io  BACK  HOME 

Drunkard's  Wife  was  in  a  ragged  calico  dress, 
and  her  eye  was  all  black  and  blue,  where  he  had 
hit  her  the  week  before.  And  the  Drunkard  had 
hold  of  a  black  quart  bottle,  and  his  nose  was  all 
red,  and  he  wore  a  plug  hat  that  was  even  rustier 
and  more  caved  in  than  Elder  Drown's,  if  such  a 
thing  were  possible.  And  there  was  —  But  I 
can't  begin  to  tell  you  of  all  the  fine  things  Mr. 
Barnum  had  that  year,  but  never  had  again. 

Another  thing  Mr.  Barnum  had  that  year  that 
never  appeared  again.  It  may  be  that  after  that 
time  the  Funny  Old  Clown  did  crack  a  joke,  but 
I  never  heard  him.  The  one  that  Mr.  Barnum 
had  got  off  the  most  comical  thing  you  ever 
heard.  I  '11  never  forget  it  the  longest  day  I  live. 
Laugh  ?  Why,  I  nearly  took  a  conniption  over  it. 
It  seems  the  clown  got  to  crying  about  some 
thing.  .  .  .  Now  what  was  it  made  him 
cry  ?  Let  me  see  now.  .  .  .  Ain't  it  queer  I 
can't  remember  that  ?  Fudge!  Well,  never  mind 
now.  It  will  come  to  me  in  a  minute. 

I  feel  kind  of  sorry  for  the  poor  little  young 
ones  that  grow  up  and  never  know  what  a  clown 
is  like.  Oh,  yes,  they  have  them  to-day,  after  a 
fashion.  They  stub  their  toes  and  fall  down  the 


CIRCUS   DAY  211 

same  as  ever,  but  there  is  a  whole  mob  of  them 
and  you  can't  take  the  interest  in  them  that  you 
could  in  "the  one,  the  only,  the  inimitable" 
clown  there  used  to  be,  a  character  of  such  im 
portance  that  he  got  his  name  on  the  bills.  He 
was  a  mighty  man  in  those  days.  The  ring-master 
was  a  kind  of  stuck-up  fellow,  very  important  in 
his  own  estimation,  but  he  did  n't  have  a  spark 
of  humor.  Not  a  spark.  And  he  'd  be  swelling 
around  there,  all  so  grand,  and  the  clown,  just  to 
take  him  down  a  peg  or  two,  would  ask  him  a 
conundrum.  And  do  you  think  he  could  ever 
guess  one  ?  Never.  Not  a  one.  And  when  the 
clown  would  tell  him  what  the  answer  was,  he  'd 
be  so  vexed  at  himself  that  he  'd  try  to  take  it  out 
on  the  poor  clown,  and  cut  at  him  with  his  long 
whip.  But  Mr.  Clown  was  just  as  spry  in  his  shoes 
as  he  was  under  the  hat,  and  he  'd  hop  up  on  the 
ring-side  out  of  the  way,  and  squall  out:  "A-a-a- 
ah!  Never  touched  me!"  We  had  that  for  a  by 
word.  Oh,  you  'd  die  laughing  at  the  comical  re 
marks  he'd  make.  And  he  'd  be  so  quick  about 
it.  The  ring-master  would  say  something,  and  be 
fore  you  'd  think,  the  clown  would  make  a  joke 
out  of  it.  I  wish  I  could  remember 


2i2  BACK  HOME 

what  it  was  he  said  that  was  so  funny,  the  time 
he  started  crying.  Seems  to  me  it  was  something 
about  his  little  brother.  .  .  .  Well,  no  mat 
ter. 

Yes,  sir,  there  are  heads  of  families  to-day,  I  '11 
bet  you,  that  have  grown  up  without  ever  having 
heard  a  clown  sing  a  comic  song,  and  ask  the  au 
dience  to  join  in  the  chorus.  And  if  you  say  to 
such  people:  "Here  we  are  again,  Mr.  Merry- 
man,"  or  "Bring  on  another  horse,"  or  "What 
will  the  little  lady  have  now  ?  the  banners,  my 
lord  ? "  they  look  at  you  so  funny.  They  don't 
know  what  you  mean,  and  they  don't  know 
whether  to  get  huffy  or  not.  Well,  I  suppose  it 
had  to  be  that  the  Funny  Old  Clown  with  all  his 
songs,  and  quips,  and  conundrums,  and  comical 
remarks  should  disappear.  Perhaps  he  "did  n't 
pay." 

I  can't  see  that  the  rest  of  the  show  has  changed 
so  very  much.  Perhaps  the  trapeze  performances 
are  more  marvelous  and  breath-suspending 
than  they  used  to  be.  But  they  were  far  and 
far  beyond  what  we  could  dream  of  then,  and  to 
go  still  farther  as  little  impresses  us  as  to  be  told 
that  people  live  still  even  westerly  of  Idaho.  The 


CIRCUS  DAY  213 

trapeze  performers  are  up-to-date  in  one  respect. 
The  fellow  that  comes  down  with  his  arms 
folded,  one  leg  stuck  out  and  the  other  twined 
around  the  big  rope,  revolving  slowly,  slowly  — 
well,  the  band  plays  the  Intermezzo  from  "Ca- 
valleria  Rusticana  "  nowadays  when  he  does  that. 
It  used  to  play :  "  O  Thou,  Sweet  Spirit,  Hear  my 
Prayer!"  But  the  lady  in  the  riding-habit  still 
smiles  as  if  it  hurt  her  when  her  horse  walks  on 
its  hind  legs;  the  bareback  rider  does  the  very 
same  fancy  steps  as  the  horse  goes  round  the  ring 
in  a  rocking-chair  lope;  the  attendants  still  slant 
the  hurdles  almost  flat  for  the  horse  to  jump; 
they  still  snake  the  banners  under  the  rider's  feet 
as  he  gives  a  little  hop  up,  and  they  still  bang 
him  on  the  head  with  the  paper-covered  hoop 
to.  ...  Hold  on  a  minute.  Now. 
Now  .  .  .  That  story  the  clown  told  that 
was  so  funny,  that  had  something  to  do  with 
those  hoops.  I  wish  I  could  think  of  it.  It  would 
make  you  laugh,  I  know. 

People  try  to  lay  the  blame  of  the  modern  cir 
cus's  failure  to  interest  them  on  the  three  rings. 
They  say  so  many  things  to  watch  at  once  keeps 
them  from  being  watching  properly  any  one  act. 


2i4  BACK  HOME 

They  can't  give  it  the  attention  it  deserves. 
But  I  '11  tell  you  what 's  wrong:  There  is  n't 
any  Funny  Old  Clown,  a  particular  one,  to  give 
it  human  interest.  It  is  all  too  splendid,  too 
magnificent,  too  far  beyond  us.  We  want  to 
hear  somebody  talk  once  in  awhile. 

They  pretended  that  the  tent  was  too  big  for 
the  clown  to  be  heard,  but  I  take  notice  it  was  n't 
too  big  for  the  fellow  to  get  up  and  declaim: 
"The  puffawmance  ees  not  yait  hawf  ovah.  The 
jaintlemanly  agents  will  now  pawss  around  the 
ring  with  tickets  faw  the  concert. "  I  used  to  hate 
that  man.  When  he  said  the  performance  was  not 
yet  half  over,  he  lied  like  a  dog,  consarn  his  pic 
ture!  There  were  only  a  few  more  acts  to  come. 
He  knew  it  and  we  knew  it.  We  wanted  the  show 
to  go  on  and  on,  and  always  to  be  just  as  exciting 
as  at  the  very  first,  and  it  wouldn't!  We  had  got 
to  the  point  where  we  could  n't  be  interested  in 
anything  any  more.  We  were  as  little  ones  unable 
to  prop  their  eyelids  open  and  yet  quarreling  with 
bed.  We  were  surfeited,  but  not  satisfied.  We  sat 
there  and  pouted  because  there  was  n't  any  more, 
and  yet  we  could  n't  but  yawn  at  the  act  before 
us.  We  were  mad  at  ourselves,  and  mad  at  every- 


CIRCUS   DAY  215 

body  else.  We  clambered  down  the  rattling  bed- 
slats  seats,  sour  and  sullen.  We  did  n't  want  to 
look  at  the  animals;  we  did  n't  want  to  do  this, 
and  we  did  n't  want  to  do  that.  We  whined  and 
snarled,  and  wriggled  and  shook  ourselves  with 
temper,  and  we  got  a  good  hard  slap,  side  of 
the  head,  right  before  everybody,  and  then  we 
yelled  as  if  we  were  being  killed  alive. 

"Now,  mister,  if  I  ever  take  you  any  place 
again,  you  '11  know  it.  I  'd  be  ashamed  of  myself 
if  I  was  you.  Hush  up!  Hush  up,  I  tell  you.  Now 
you  mark.  You  're  never  going  to  the  show  again. 
Do  you  hear  me  ?  Never!  I  mean  it.  You  're 
never  going  again." 

But  at  eventide  there  was  light.  After  supper, 
after  a  little  rest  and  a  good  deal  of  food,  while 
chopping  the  kindling  for  morning  (it 's  wonder 
ful  how  useful  employ  tends  to  induce  a  cheerful 
view  of  life)  out  of  her  dazzling  treasure-heap  of 
jewels,  Memory  took  up,  one  after  another,  a 
glowing  recollection  and  viewed  it  with  delight. 
The  evening  performance,  the  one  all  lighted  up 
with  bunches  and  bunches  of  lights,  was  a-pre- 
paring,  and  in  the  gentle  breeze  the  far-off  music 
waved  as  it  had  been  a  flago  A  harsh  and  rumb- 


216  BACK  HOME 

ling  noise  as  of  heavy  timbers  falling  tore  through 
the  tissue  of  sweet  sounds.  The  horses  in  the 
barn  next  door  screamed  in  their  stalls  to  hear  it. 
Ages  and  ages  ago,  on  distant  wind-swept  plains 
their  ancestors  had  hearkened  to  that  hunting- 
cry,  and  summoned  up  their  valor  and  their 
speed.  It  still  thrilled  in  the  blood  of  these  patient 
slaves  of  man,  though  countless  generations  of 
them  had  never  even  so  much  as  seen  a  lion. 

"And  is  that  all  the  difference,  pa,  that  the  lion 
roars  at  night  and  the  ostrich  in  the  daytime  ?" 

Out  on  the  back  porch  in  the  deepening  dusk 
we  sat,  with  eyes  relaxed  and  dreaming,  and 
watched  the  stars  that  powdered  the  dark  sky. 
Before  our  inward  vision  passed  in  review  the 
day  of  splendor  and  renown.  We  sighed,  at  last, 
but  it  was  the  happy  sigh  of  him  who  has  full 
dined.  Ambition  was  digesting.  In  our  turn, 
when  we  grew  up,  we,  too,  were  to  do  the  deeds 
of  high  emprise.  We  were  to  be  somebody. 

(I  never  heard  of  anybody  sitting  up  to  see  the 
show  depart.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  would 
be  the  best  time  to  run  off  with  it.) 

The  next  day  we  visited  the  lots.  It  was  no 
dream.  See  the  litter  that  mussed  up  the  place. 


CIRCUS  DAY  217 

We  were  all  there.  None  had  heard  the  man  that 
runs  the  show  say  genially:  "Yes,  I  think  we  can 
arrange  to  take  you  with  us. "  Here  was  the  ring; 
here  the  tent-pole  holes,  and  here  a  scrap  of 
paper  torn  from  a  hoop  the  bareback  rider  leaped 
through.  .  .  .  Oh,  now  I  know  what  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  that  the  clown  said.  The  comic- 
alest  thing! 

He  picked  up  one  of  these  hoops  and  began  to 
sniffle. 

So  the  ring-master  asked  him  what  he  was  cry 
ing  about. 

"I  —  I  —  was  thinking  of  my  mother.  Smf ! 
My  good  old  mother!" 

So  the  ring-master  asked  him  what  made  him 
think  of  his  mother. 

"This. "And  he  held  up  the  paper-covered  hoop. 

The  ring-master  could  n't  see  how  that  put  the 
clown  in  mind  of  his  mother.  He  was  awful 
dumb,  that  man. 

"It  looks  just  like  the  pancakes  she  used  to 
make  for  us." 

Well,  sir,  we  just  hollered  and  laughed  at  that. 
And  after  we  had  quieted  down  a  little,  the  ring 
master  says :  "  As  big  as  that  ? " 


218  BACK  HOME 

"Bigger,"  says  the  clown.  "Why,  she  used  to 
make  'em  so  big  we  used  'em  for  bedclothes." 

"Indeed  ?"  (Just  like  that.  He  took  it  all  in, 
just  as  if  it  was  so.) 

"Oh,  my,  yes!  I  mind  one  time  I  was  sleeping 
with  my  little  brother,  and  I  waked  up  just  as 
cold  —  Brrr!  But  I  was  cold!" 

"  But  how  could  that  be,  sir  ?You  just  now  said 
you  had  pancakes  for  bedclothes. " 

"Yes,  but  my  little  brother  got  hungry  in  the 
night,  and  et  up  all  the  cover." 

Laugh  ?  Why,  they  screamed.  Me  ?  I  thought 
I  Jd  just  about  go  up.  But  the  ring-master  never 
cracked  a  smile.  He  did  n't  see  the  joke  at  all. 

Good-by,  old  clown,  friend  of  our  childhood, 
good-by,  good-by  forever!  And  you,  our  other 
friend,  the  street  parade,  must  you  go,  too  ?  And 
you,  the  gorgeous  show-bills,  must  you  tread 
the  path  toward  the  sundown?  Good-by! 
Good-by!  In  that  dreary  land  where  you  are 
going,  the  Kingdom  of  the  Ausgespielt,  it  may 
comfort  you  to  recollect  the  young  hearts  you 
have  made  happy  in  the  days  that  were,  but 
never  more  can  be  again. 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

WHETHER  or  not  the  name  had  an 
influence  on  the  weather,  I  don't 
know.  Perhaps  it  did  rain  some 
years,  but,  as  I  remember,  County  Fair  time 
seems  to  have  had  a  sky  perfectly  cloudless,  with 
its  blue  only  a  little  dulled  around  the  edges 
where  it  came  close  to  the  ground  and  the  dust 
settled  on  it.  Things  far  off  were  sort  of  hazy, 
but  that  might  have  been  the  result  of  the  bon 
fires  of  leaves  we  had  been  having  evenings  after 
supper.  In  Fair  weather,  when  the  sun  had  been 
up  long  enough  to  get  a  really  good  start,  it  was 
right  warm,  but  in  the  shade  it  was  cool,  and 
nights  and  mornings  there  was  a  chill  in  the  air 
that  threatened  worse  things  to  come. 

The  harvest  is  past,  the  summer  is  ended. 
Down  cellar  the  swing-shelf  is  cram-jam  full  of 
jelly-glasses,  and  jars  of  fruit.  Out  on  the  hen- 
219 


220  BACK  HOME 

house  roof  are  drying  what,  when  the  soap-box 
wagon  was  first  built,  promised  barrels  and  bar 
rels  of  nuts  to  be  brought  up  with  the  pitcher  of 
cider  for  our  comforting  in  the  long  winter  eve 
nings,  but  what  turns  out,  when  the  shucks  are 
off,  to  be  a  poor,  pitiful  half-peck,  daily  depleted 
by  the  urgent  necessity  of  finding  out  if  they  are 
dry  enough  yet.  Folks  are  picking  apples,  and 
Koontz's  cider-mill  is  in  full  operation.  (Do  you 
know  any  place  where  a  fellow  can  get  some  nice 
long  straws  ?)  Out  in  the  fields  are  champagne- 
colored  pyramids,  each  with  a  pale-gold  heap  of 
corn  beside  it,  and  the  good  black  earth  is  dotted 
with  orange  blobs  that  promise  pumpkin-pies 
for  Thanksgiving  Day.  No.  Let  me  look  again. 
Those  are  n't  pie-pumpkins;  those  are  cow- 
pumpkins,  and  if  you  want  to  see  something  kind 
of  pitiful,  I  '11  show  you  Abe  Bethard  chopping 
up  one  of  those  yellow  globes  —  with  what,  do 
you  suppose  ?  With  the  cavalry  saber  his  daddy 
used  at  Gettysburg. 

The  harvest  is  past,  the  summer  is  ended.  As  a 
result  of  all  the  good  feeding  and  the  outdoor 
air  we  have  had  for  three  or  four  months  past, 
the  strawberry  shortcakes,  and  cherry-pies,  and 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  221 

green  peas,  and  new  potatoes,  and  string  beans, 
and  roasting-ears,  and  all  such  garden-stuff,  and 
the  fresh  eggs,  broken  into  the  skillet  before 
Speckle  gets  done  cackling,  and  the  cockerels  we 
pick  off  the  roost  Saturday  evenings  (you  see, 
we  're  thinning  'em  out;  no  sense  in  keeping  all 
of  'em  over  winter)  —  as  a  result,  I  say,  of  all 
this  good  eating,  and  the  outdoor  life,  and  the 
necessity  of  stirring  around  a  little  lively  these 
days  we  feel  pretty  good.  And  yet  we  get  kind  of 
low  in  our  minds,  too.  The  harvest  is  past,  the 
summer  is  ended.  It 's  gone,  the  good  playtime 
when  we  did  n't  have  to  go  to  school,  when  the 
only  foot-covering  we  wore  was  a  rag  around  one 
big  toe  or  the  other;  the  days  when  we  could  stay 
in  swimming  all  day  long  except  mealtimes;  the 
days  of  Sabbath-school  picnics  and  excursions  to 
the  Soldiers'  Home  —  it 's  gone.  The  harvest  is 
past,  the  summer  is  ended.  The  green  and  leafy 
things  have  heard  the  word,  and  most  of  them 
are  taking  it  pretty  seriously,  judging  by  their 
looks.  But  the  maples  and  some  more  of  them, 
particularly  the  maples,  with  daredevil  reckless 
ness,  have  resolved,  as  it  were,  to  die  with  their 
boots  on,  and  flame  out  in  such  violent  and 


222  BACK  HOME 

unbelievable  colors  that  we  feel  obliged  to  take 
testimony  in  certain  outrageous  cases,  and  file 
away  the  exhibits  in  the  Family  Bible  where  no 
body  will  bother  them.  The  harvest  is  past,  the 
summer  is  ended.  Rainy  days  you  can  see  how 
played-out  and  forlorn  the  whole  world  looks. 
But  at  Fair  time,  when  the  sun  shines  bright,  it 
appears  right  cheerful. 

It  seems  to  me  the  Fair  lasted  three  days.  One 
of  them  was  a  holiday  from  school,  I  know,  and 
unless  I  'm  wrong,  it  was  n't  on  the  first  day,  be 
cause  then  they  were  getting  the  things  in,  and  it 
was  n't  on  the  last  day,  because  then  they  were 
taking  the  things  out,  so  it  must  have  been  on  the 
middle  day,  when  everybody  went.  Charley 
Wells  had  both  the  depot  'buses  out  with 
"COUNTY  FAIR"  painted  on  muslin  hung  on 
the  sides.  The  Cornet  Band  rode  all  round  town 
in  one,  and  so  on  over  to  the  "  scene  of  the  festiv 
ities"  as  the  Weekly  Examiner  very  aptly  put  it, 
and  then  both  'buses  stood  out  in  front  of  the 
American  House,  waiting  for  passengers,  with 
Dinny  Enright  calling  out:  "This  sway  t'  the 
Fair  Groun's!  Going  RIGHT  over!"  Only  he 
always  waited  till  he  got  a  good  load  before  he 


THE  COUNTY   FAIR  223 

turned  a  wheel.  (Dinny's  foreman  at  the  chair- 
factory  now.  Did  you  know  that  ?  Doing  fine. 
Gets  $15  a  week,  and  has  n't  drunk  a  drop  for 
nearly  two  years.) 

Everybody  goes  the  middle  day  of  the  Fair, 
everybody  that  you  ever  did  know  or  hear  tell  of. 
You  '11  be  going  along,  kind  of  half-listening  to 
the  man  selling  Temperance  Bitters,  and  de 
nouncing  the  other  bitters  because  they  have 
"  al-cue-hawl "  in  them,  and  "al-cue-hawl  will 
make  you  drunk,"  (which  is  perfectly  true),  and 
kind  of  half-listening  to  the  man  with  the  electric 
machine,  declaring:  "Ground  is  the  first  conduc 
tor;  water  is  the  second  conductor,"  and  you  '11 
be  thinking  how  slippery  the  grass  is  to  walk  on, 
when  a  face  in  the  crowd  will,  as  it  were,  sting 
your  memory.  "  I  ought  to  know  that  man,"  says 
you  to  yourself.  "Now,  who  the  mischief  is  he  ? 
Barker?  No,  't  isn't  Barker,  Barkdull  ?  No. 
Funny  I  can't  think  of  his  name.  Begins  with  B 
I  'm  pretty  certain."  And  you  trail  along  after 
him,  as  if  you  were  a  detective,  sort  of  keeping 
out  of  his  sight,  and  yet  every  once  in  a  while  get 
ting  a  good  look  at  him.  "Mmmmmm!"  says 
you.  "What  is  that  fellow's  name?  Why,  sure, 


224  BACK  HOME 

McConica."  And  you  walk  up  to  him  and  stick 
out  your  hand  while  he  's  gassing  with  some 
body,  and  there  's  that  smile  on  your  face  that 
says :  "  I  know  you  but  you  don't  know  me,"  and 
he  takes  it  in  a  limp  sort  of  fashion,  and  starts  to 
say:  "You  have  the  advantage  of-  "  when,  all 
of  a  sudden,  he  grabs  your  hand  as  if  he  were  go 
ing  to  jerk  your  arm  out  of  its  socket  and  beat 
you  over  the  head  with  the  bloody  end,  and 
shouts  out:  "Why,  HELLO,  Billy!  Well,  suffer 
ing  Cyrus  and  all  hands  round!  Hold  still  a  sec 
ond  and  let  me  look  at  you.  Gosh  darn  your  hide, 
where  you  been  for  so  long  ?  I  though  you  'd 
clean  evaporated  off  the  face  the  earth.  Why, 
how  AIR  you  ?  How 's  everything  ?  That 's  good. 
Let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  my  wife. 
Molly,  this  is  Mr.-  "  But  she  says:  "Now 
don't  you  tell  me  what  his  name  is.  Let  me  think. 
.  .  .  Why,  Willie  Smith!  Well,  of  all  things! 
Why,  how  you  Ve  changed!  Honest,  I  would  n't 
have  knowed  you.  Do  you  mind  the  time  we  went 
sleigh-ridin'  the  whole  posse  of  us,  and  got  upset 
down  there  by  Hanks's  place?"  And  then  you 
start  in  on  "  D'  you  mind  ? "  and  "  Don't  you  rec 
ollect  ?"  and  you  talk  about  the  old  school-days, 


THE  COUNTY   FAIR  225 

and  who  's  married,  and  who  's  moved  out  to 
Kansas,  and  who  's  got  the  Elias  Hoover  place 
now,  and  how  Ella  Trimble  —  You  know  Ella 
Diefenbaugh,  old  Jake  Diefenbaugh's  daughter, 
the  one  that  lisped.  Course  you  do.  Well,  she 
married  Ed  Trimble,  and  he  died  along  in  the 
early  part  of  the  summer.  Typhoid.  Was  getting 
well  but  he  took  a  relapse,  and  went  off  like  that! 
And  now  she  's  left  with  three  little  ones,  and 
they  guess  poor  Ella  has  a  pretty  hard  time  mak 
ing  out.  And  this  old  schoolmate  that  you  start 
to  tell  a  funny  story  about  is  dead,  and  the 
freckle-faced  boy  with  the  buck  teeth  that  put 
the  rabbit  in  the  teacher's  desk,  he  's  dead,  too, 
and  the  boy  that  used  to  cry  in  school  when  they 
read: 

"  Give  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother, 

Only  three  grains  of  corn; 
To  save  what  little  life  I  have,  mother. 
Till  the  coming  of  the  morn.  " 

well,  he  studied  law  with  old  Judge  Rodehaver, 
and  got  to  be  Prosecuting  Attorney,  but  he  took 
to  drinking  —  politics,  you  know  —  and  now 
he  's  just  gone  to  the  dogs.  Smart  as  a  steel-trap, 


226  BACK  HOME 

and  bright  as  a  dollar.  Oh,  a  terrible  pity!  A  ter 
rible  pity.  And  as  you  hear  the  fate  of  one  after 
another  of  the  happy  companions  of  your  child 
hood,  and  the  sadness  of  life  comes  over  you, 
they  start  to  tell  something  that  makes  you  laugh 
again.  I  tell  you.  Did  you  ever  see  one  of  these 
concave  glasses,  such  as  the  artists  use  when  they 
want  to  get  an  idea  of  how  a  picture  looks  all  to 
gether  as  a  whole,  and  not  as  an  assemblage  of 
parts  ?  Well,  what  the  concave  glass  is  to  a  pic 
ture,  so  such  talk  is  to  life.  It  sort  of  draws  it  all 
together,  and  you  see  it  as  a  whole,  its  sunshine 
and  its  shadow,  its  laughter  and  its  tears,  its 
work  and  its  play,  its  past  and  its  present.  But 
not  its  future.  The  Good  Man  has  mercifully 
hidden  that  from  us. 

It  does  a  body  good  to  get  such  a  talk  once  in 
a  while. 

And  there  are  the  young  fellows  and  the  girls. 
This  young  gentleman  in  the  rimless  eye-glasses, 
who  is  now  beginning  to  "go  out  among  'em'*  — 
the  last  time  you  saw  him  was  in  meeting  when 
Elder  Drown  was  preaching,  and  my  gentleman 
stood  up  in  the  seat  and  shouted  shrilly: 
"T  ain't  at  all,  man.  T  ain't  at  all!"  And  this 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  227 

sweet  girl-graduate  —  the  last  time  you  saw  her 
was  just  after  Becky  Daly,  in  the  vain  effort  to 
"peacify"  the  squalling  young  one,  had  given 
her  a  fresh  egg  to  play  with.  I  kind  o'  like  the 
looks  of  the  younger  generation  of  girls.  But  I 
don't  know  about  the  young  fellows.  They  look 
to  me  like  a  trifling  lot.  Nothing  like  what  they 
were  in  our  young  days.  I  don't  see  but  what  us 
old  codgers  had  better  hold  on  a  while  longer  to 
the  County  Clerk's  office,  and  the  Sheriff's  of 
fice,  and  the  Probate  Judgeship,  and  the  presi 
dency  of  the  National  Bank.  It  would  n't  be  safe 
to  trust  the  destinies  of  the  country  in  the  hands 
of  such  heedless  young  whiffets.  Engaged  to  be 
married!  Oh,  get  out!  What  ?  Those  babies  ? 

I  kept  awake  most  of  the  time  the  man  was 
lecturing  on:  "The  Republic:  Will  it  Endure  ?" 
but  I  dor't  remember  that  he  said  anything  in  it 
about  the  crops.  (We  can't  go  'round  meeting  the 
folks  all  day.  We  really  must  give  a  glance  at  the 
exhibition.)  And  I  am  one  of  those  who  hold  to 
the  belief  that  while  the  farmers  can  raise  ears  of 
corn  as  long  as  from  your  elbow  to  your  finger 
tips,  as  big  'round  as  a  rolling-pin,  and  set  with 
grains  as  regular  and  even  as  an  eight-dollar  set 


228  BACK  HOME 

of  artificial  teeth ;  as  long  as  they  grow  potatoes 
the  size  of  your  foot,  and  such  pretty  oats  and 
wheat,  and  turnips,  and  squashes,  and  onions, 
and  apples  and  all  kinds  of  truck,  and  raise  them 
not  only  in  increasing  size  but  increasing  quanti 
ties  to  the  acre  —  I  feel  as  if  the  Republic  would 
last  the  year  out  anyway.  Not  that  I  have  any  no 
tion  that  mere  material  prosperity  will  make  and 
keep  us  a  free  people,  but  it  goes  to  show  that  the 
farmers  are  not  plodding  along,  doing  as  their 
fathers  did  before  them,  but  that  they  are  read 
ing  and  studying,  and  taking  advantage  of  mod 
ern  methods.  There  are  two  ways  of  increasing 
your  income.  One  is  by  enlarging  your  output, 
and  the  other  is  by  enlarging  your  share  of  the 
proceeds  from  the  sale  of  that  output.  The 
Grand  Dukes  will  not  always  run  this  country. 
The  farmers  saved  the  Union  once  by  dying  for 
it;  they  will  save  it  again  by  living  for  it. 

The  scientific  fellows  tell  us  that  we  have  not 
nearly  reached  the  maximum  of  yield  to  the  acre 
of  crops  that  are  harvested  once  a  year,  but  in 
regard  to  the  crops  that  are  harvested  twice  a  day 
it  looks  to  me  as  if  we  were  doing  fairly  well. 
Nowadays  we  hardly  know  what  is  meant  by  the 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  229 

expression,  "Spring  poor."  It  is  a  sinister  phrase, 
and  tells  a  story  of  the  old,  cruel  days  when  farm 
ers  begrudged  their  cattle  the  little  bite  they  ate 
in  winter-time,  so  that  when  the  grass  came  again 
the  poor  creatures  would  fall  over  trying  to  crop 
it.  They  were  so  starved  and  weak  that,  as  the 
saying  went,  they  had  to  lean  up  against  the 
fence  to  breathe.  They  don't  do  that  way  now,  as 
one  look  at  the  fine,  sleek  cows  will  show  you.  A 
cow  these  days  is  a  different  sort  of  a  being,  her 
coat  like  satin,  and  her  udder  generous,  com 
pared  with  the  wild-eyed  things  with  burrs  in 
their  tails,  and  their  flanks  crusted  with  filth, 
their  udders  the  size  of  a  kid  glove,  and  yielding 
such  a  little  dab  of  milk  and  for  such  a  short 
period.  Hear  the  dairymen  boast  now  of  the  mirac 
ulous  yearly  yield  in  pounds  of  butter  and  milk, 
and  when  they  say:  "You  *ve  got  to  treat  a  cow 
as  if  she  were  a  lady,"  it  sounds  like  good  sense. 
Pigs  are  naturally  so  untidy  about  their  per 
sons,  and  have  such  shocking  table-manners  that 
it  seems  difficult  to  treat  a  sow  like  a  lady,  but 
that  one  in  the  pen  yonder,  with  her  litter  of 
sucking  pigs,  seems  very  interesting.  Come,  let 's 
have  a  look.  Are  n't  the  little  pigs  dear  things  ? 


230  BACK  HOME 

I  'd  like  to  climb  in  and  take  one  of  them  up  to 
pet  it;  do  you  s'pose  she  'd  mind  it  if  I  did  ?  I  can 
see  decided  improvement  in  the  modern  hogs 
over  old  Mose  Batcheller's.  If  you  remember,  his 
were  what  were  known  as  "razorbacks."  They 
could  go  like  the  wind,  and  the  fence  was  not 
made  that  could  stop  them.  If  they  could  n't  root 
under  it,  they  could  turn  themselves  sidewise 
and  slide  through  between  the  rails.  It  was  told 
me  that,  failing  all  else,  they  could  give  their  tails 
a  swing  —  you  remember  the  big  balls  of  mud 
they  used  to  have  on  their  tails'  ends  —  they 
could  swing'their  tails  after  the  manner  of  an  ath 
lete  throwing  the  hammer,  and  fly  over  the  top  of 
the  tallest  stake-and-rider  fence  ever  put  up.  I 
don't  know  whether  this  is  the  strict  truth  or  not, 
but  it  is  what  was  told  me  as  a  little  boy,  and  I 
don't  think  people  would  wilfully  deceive  an  in 
nocent  child. 

The  pigs  nowaday  are  n't  as  smart  as  that,  but 
they  cut  up  better  at  hog-killing  time.  They 
are  n't  quite  so  trim;  indeed,  they  are  nothing 
but  cylinders  of  meat,  whittled  to  a  point  at  the 
front  end,  and  set  on  four  pegs,  but  as  you  lean 
on  the  top-rail  of  the  pens  out  at  the  County  Fair 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  231 

and  look  down  upon  them,  you  can  picture  in 
your  mind,  without  much  effort,  ham,  and  side- 
meat,  and  bacon,  and  spare-ribs,  and  smoked 
shoulder,  and  head-cheese,  and  liver-wurst,  and 
sausages,  and  glistening  white  lard  for  crullers 
and  pie-crust  —  Yes,  I  think  pigs  are  right  inter 
esting.  I  know  they  've  got  Scripture  for  it,  the 
folks  that  think  it  is  wrong  to  eat  pork,  but  some 
how  I  feel  sorry  for  them;  they  miss  such  a  lot, 
not  only  in  the  eating  line,  but  other  ways.  They 
are  always  being  persecuted,  and  harassed,  and 
picked  at.  Whereas  the  pork-fed  man,  it  seems 
to  me,  sort  of  hankers  to  be  picked  at.  It  gives 
him  a  good  chance  to  slap  somebody  slonch- 
ways.  He  feels  better  after  he  has  seen  his  perse 
cutors  go  away  with  a  cut  lip,  and  fingering  of 
their  teeth  to  see  if  they  're  all  there. 

You  '11  just  have  to  take  me  gently  but  firmly 
by  the  sleeve  and  lead  me  past  the  next  exhibit, 
the  noisy  one,  where  there  's  so  much  cackling 
and  crowing.  I  give  you  fair  warning  that  if  you 
get  me  started  talking  about  chickens,  the  Coun 
ty  Fair  will  have  to  wait  till  some  other  time.  I 
don't  know  much  about  ducks,  and  geese,  and 
guinea-hens,  and  pea-fowl,  and  turkeys,  but 


232  BACK  HOME 

chickens  —  Why,  say.  We  had  a  hen  once  (Ply 
mouth  Rock  she  was;  we  called  her  Henrietta), 
and  honestly,  that  hen  knew  more  than  some 
folks.  One  time  she  —  all  right.  I  '11  hush.  Let 's 
go  in  here. 

I  don't  remember  whether  the  pies,  and  cakes, 
and  canned  fruit,  and  such  are  in  Pomona  Hall 
or  the  Fine  Arts  Hall.  Fine  Arts  Hall  I  think. 
They  ought  to  be.  I  speak  to  be  one  of  the  judges 
that  give  out  the  premiums  in  this  department. 
I  'd  be  generous  and  let  somebody  else  do  the 
judging  of  the  cakes,  because  I  don't  care  much 
for  cake.  Oh,  I  can  manage  to  choke  it  down, 
but  I  have  n't  the  expert  knowledge,  practical 
and  scientific,  that  I  have  in  the  matter  of  pie. 
I  'd  bear  my  share  of  the  work  when  it 
came  to  the  other  things,  jellies  and  preserves, 
and  pies,  but  not  cake.  I  'd  know  just  exactly 
how  to  go  at  it  in  the  matter  of  jellies.  I  'd  take  a 
glass  of  currant,  and  hold  it  up  to  the  light  to 
note  its  crimson  glory.  And  I  'd  lift  off  the  waxed 
paper  top  and  peer  in,  and  maybe  give  the  jelly  a 
shake.  And  then  I  'd  take  a  spoon  and  taste, 
closing  my  eyes  so  as  to  appear  to  deliberate  — 
they  'd  roll  up  in  an  ecstacy  anyhow  —  and  I  'd 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  233 

smack  my  lips,  and  say:  "Mmmmm!"  very 
thoughtfully,  and  set  the  glass  back,  and  write 
down  in  my  book  my  judgment,  which  would  in 
variably  be:  "First  Prize."  Because  if  there  is 
anything  on  top  of  this  green  earth  that  I  think 
is  just  about  right,  it  is  currant  jelly.  Grape  jelly 
is  nice,  and  crab-apple  jelly  has  its  good  points, 
and  quince  jelly  is  very  delicate,  but  there  is 
something  about  currant  jelly  that  seems  to 
touch  the  spot.  Quince  preserves  are  good  if 
there  is  enough  apple  with  the  quince,  and  water 
melon  preserves  are  a  great  favorite,  not  because 
they  are  so  much  better  tasting,  but  because  the 
lucent  golden  cubes  in  the  spicy  syrup  appeal  so 
to  the  eye.  But  if  you  want  to  know  what  I  think 
is  really  good  eating  in  the  preserve  line,  you  just 
watch  my  motions  when  I  come  to  the  tomato 
preserves,  these  little  fig-tomatoes,  and  see  how 
quick  the  red  card  is  put  on  them.  Yes,  indeed. 
It  Js  been  a  long  time,  has  n't  it  ?  since  you  had 
any  tomato-preserves,  you  that  have  n't  been 
"Back  Home'' lately. 

It 's  no  great  trick  to  put  up  other  fruit  so  that 
it  will  keep,  but  I  'd  look  the  canned  tomatoes 
over  pretty  carefully,  and  if  I  saw  that  one  lady 


234  BACK  HOME 

had  not  only  put  them  up  so  that  they  had  n't 
turned  foamy,  but  had  also  succeeded  with  green 
corn,  and  that  other  poser,  string  beans,  I  'd  give 
her  first  premium,  because  I  'd  know  she  was  a 
first-rate  housekeeper,  and  a  careful  woman,  and 
one  that  deserved  encouragement. 

But  I  'd  save  myself  for  the  pies.  I  can  tell  a 
rich,  short,  flaky  crust,  and  I  can  tell  the  kind 
that  is  as  brown  as  a  dried  apple,  and  tough  as 
the  same  on  the  top,  and  sad  and  livery  on  the 
bottom.  And  I  know  about  fillings,  how  thick 
they  ought  to  be,  and  how  they  ought  to  be  sea 
soned,  and  all.  Particularly  pumpkin-pies,  be 
cause  I  had  early  advantages  that  way  that  very 
few  other  boys  had.  I  was  allowed  to  scrape  the 
crock  that  had  held  the  pumpkin  for  the  pies.  So 
that 's  how  I  know  as  much  as  I  do. 

I  suppose,  however,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
that  there  is  no  pie  that  can  quite  come  up  to  an 
apple-pie.  You  take  nice,  short  crust  that 's  been 
worked  up  with  ice-water,  and  line  the  tin  with 
it,  and  fill  it  heaping  with  sliced,  tart  apples  — 
not  sauce.  Mercy,  no!  —  and  sweeten  them  just 
right,  and  put  on  a  lump  of  butter,  and  some  all 
spice,  and  perhaps  a  clove,  and  a  little  lemon 


Then  put  on  the  cover,   and  trim   off  the  edge,   and  pinch 
it  up  in    scallops" 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  235 

peel,  and  then  put  on  the  cover,  and  trim  off  the 
edge,  and  pinch  it  up  in  scallops,  and  draw  a 
couple  of  leaves  in  the  top  with  a  sharp  knife, 
and  have  the  oven  just  right,  and  set  it  in  there, 
and  I  tell  you  that  when  ma  opens  the  oven-door 
to  see  how  the  pie  is  coming  on,  there  distils 
through  the  house  such  a  perfume  that  you  cry 
out  in  a  choking  voice:  "Say!  Ain't  dinner  'most 
ready?" 

But  I  fully  recognize  the  fact  that  very  often 
our  judgment  is  warped  by  feeling,  and  I  am  in 
clined  to  believe  that  even  the  undoubted  merit 
of  the  apple-pie  would  not  prevail  against  a  vine 
gar-pie,  if  such  should  be  presented  to  me  for  my 
decision.  A  vinegar-pie  ?  Well,  it  has  a  top  and 
bottom  crust,  the  same  as  any  other  pie,  but  its 
filling  is  made  of  vinegar,  diluted  with  water  to 
the  proper  degree  of  sub-acidity,  sweetened  with 
molasses,  thickened  with  flour,  and  all  baked  as 
any  other  pie.  You  smile  at  its  crude  simplicity, 
and  wonder  why  I  should  favor  it.  To  you  it 
does  n't  tell  the  story  that  it  does  to  me.  It 
does  n't  take  you  back  in  imagination  to  "the 
airly  days,"  when  folks  came  over  the  mountains 
in  covered  wagons,  and  settled  in  the  Western 


236  BACK  HOME 

Reserve,  leaving  behind  them  all  the  civilization 
of  their  day,  and  its  comforts,  parting  from  rela 
tives  and  friends,  knowing  full  well  that  in  this 
life  they  never  more  should  look  upon  their  faces 
—  leaving  everything  behind  to  make  a  new 
home  in  the  western  wilds. 

Is  was  a  land  of  promise  that  they  came  to. 
The  virgin  soil  bore  riotously.  There  were  fruit- 
trees  in  the  forest  that  Johnny  Appleseed  had 
planted  on  his  journeyings.  The  young  husband 
could  stand  in  his  dooryard  and  kill  wild  tur 
keys  with  his  rifle.  They  fed  to  loathing  on  veni 
son,  and  squirrels,  and  all  manner  of  game,  and 
once  in  a  great  while  they  had  the  luxury  of  salt 
pork.  They  were  well-nourished,  but  sometimes 
they  pined  for  that  which  was  more  than  mere 
food.  They  hungered  for  that  which  should  be  to 
the  meals'  victuals  what  the  flower  is  to  the 
plant. 

"  I  woosh  't  —  I  woosh  't  was  so  we  could  hev 
pie,"  sighed  one  such.  (Let  us  call  him  Uriah 
Kinney.  I  think  that  sounds  as  if  it  were  his 
name.) 

"Land's  sakes!"  snapped  his  wife,  exasper 
ated  that  he  should  be  thinking  of  the  same 


.-^  v  v>-; 
?  SKV 

*  i 


"  Hello,  girls, n-l  he  answered  heartily 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  237 

thing  that  she  was.  "Land's  sakes!  Haow 
cT  ye  s'pose  I  kin  make  a  pie  when  I  hain't 
got  e'er  a  thing  to  make  it  aout  o'  ?  You  gimme 
suthinn  to  make  it  aout  o',  an'  you  see  haow 
quick  — " 

"  I  ain't  a-faultinn  ye,  Mary  Ann,"  interposed 
Uriah  gently.  "I  know  haow  'tis.  I  was  on'y 
tellin'  ye.  I  git  —  I  git  a  kind  o'  hum'sick  some 
times.  'Pears  like  as  if  I  sh'd  feel  more  resigned- 
like.  .  .  .  Don't  ye  cry,  Mary  Ann.  I  know, 
I  know.  You  feel  julluk  I  do  'baout  back  home, 
an'  all  luk  that." 

O  woman!  When  the  heft  of  thy  intellect  is 
thrown  against  a  problem,  something  has  got  to 
give.  Not  long  after,  Uriah  sits  down  to  dinner, 
and  can  hardly  ask  a  blessing,  he  has  to  swallow 
so.  A  pie  is  on  the  table! 

"Gosh,  Mary  Ann,  but  this  is  good!"  says  he, 
holding  out  his  hand  for  the  third  piece.  "This  is 
lickinn  good!"  And  he  celebrates  her  achieve 
ment  far  and  wide. 

"  My  Mary  Ann  med  me  a  pie  t'  other  day, 
was  the  all-firedest  best  pie  I  ever  et." 

" Med  you  what?19 

"Med  me  a  pie." 


238  BACK  HOME 

"  Pie  ?  Whutch  talkinn  'baout  ?  Can't  git  num- 
more  pies  naow.  Frut  's  all  gin  aout." 

"I  golly,  she  med  it  just  the  same.  Smartest 
woman  y'  ever  see."  The  man  dribbled  at  the 
mouth. 

"What  sh'  make  it  aout  o'  ?" 

"Vinegar  an'  worter,  I  think  she  said.  I 
d'  know  's  I  ever  et  anythinn  I  relished  julluk 
that.  My  Mary  Ann,  tell  yew!  she  's  'baout  's 
smart 's  they  make  'em." 

I  wish  I  knew  who  she  really  was  whom  I 
have  called  Mary  Ann  Kinney,  she  that  made 
the  first  vinegar-pie.  I  wish  I  knew  where  her 
grave  is  that  I  might  lay  upon  it  a  bunch  of 
flowers,  such  as  she  knew  and  liked  —  sweet- 
william,  and  phlox,  and  larkspur,  and  wild  col 
umbine.  It  could  n't  make  it  up  to  her  for  all  the 
hardships  she  underwent  when  she  was  bringing 
up  a  family  in  that  wild,  western  country,  and  es 
pecially  that  fall  when  they  all  had  the  "fever  'n' 
ager"  so  bad,  Uriah  and  the  twins  chilling  one 
day,  and  Hiram  and  Sophronia  Jane  the  next, 
and  she  just  as  miserable  as  any  of  them,  but 
keeping  up  somehow,  God  only  knows  how.  It 
could  n't  make  it  up  to  her,  but  as  I  laid  the 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  239 

pretty  posies  against  the  leaning  headstone  on 
which  is  written: 

"  A  Loving  Wife,  a  Mother  Dear, 
A  Faithful  Friend  Lies  Buried  Here. " 

I  believe  she  'd  get  word  of  it  somehow,  and  un 
derstand  what  I  was  trying  to  say  by  it. 

I  '11  ask  to  be  let  off  the  committee  that  judges 
the  rest  of  the  exhibits  in  the  Fine  Arts  Hall,  the 
quilts  and  the  Battenberg,  and  the  crocheting, 
and  such.  I  know  the  Log  Cabin  pattern,  and  the 
Mexican  Feather  pattern,  and  I  think  I  could 
make  out  to  tell  the  Hen-and-Chickens  pattern  of 
quilts,  but  that 's  as  much  as  ever.  And  as  to  the 
real,  hand-painted  views  of  fruit-cake,  and 
grapes  and  apples  on  a  red  table-cloth,  I  am  one 
of  those  that  can't  make  allowances  for  the  fact 
that  she  only  took  two  terms.  I  call  to  mind  one 
picture  that  Miss  Alvalou  Ashbaker  made  of  her 
pap,  old  "  Coonrod  "  Ashbaker.  The  Lord  knows 
he  was  a  "humbly  critter,"  but  he  wasn't  as 
"humbly"  as  she  made  him  out  to  be,  with  his 
eyes  bulging  out  of  his  head  as  if  he  was  choking 


240  BACK  HOME 

on  a  fishbone.  And,  instead  of  her  dressing  him 
up  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  I  wish  I  may  never  see 
the  back  of  my  neck  if  that  girl  did  n't  paint  him 
in  a  red-and-black  barred  flannel  shirt,  with  por 
celain  buttons  on  it!  And  his  hair  looked  as  if  the 
calf  had  been  at  it.  Would  n't  you  think  some 
body  would  have  told  her  ?  And  that  is  n't  all. 
She  got  the  premium! 

Neither  am  I  prepared  to  pass  judgment  on 
the  fancy  penmanship  displayed  by  Professor 
Swope,  framed  elegantly  in  black  walnut,  and 
gilt,  depicting  a  bounding  deer,  all  made  out  of 
hair-line,  shaded  spirals,  done  with  his  facile 
pen.  (No  wonder  a  deer  can  jump  so,  with  all 
those  springs  inside  him.)  Professor  Swope  writes 
visiting  cards  for  you,  wonderful  birds  done  in 
flourishes  and  holding  ribbons  in  their  bills.  He 
puts  your  name  on  the  ribbon  place.  Neatest  and 
tastiest  thing  you  can  imagine.  I  like  to  watch 
him  do  it,  but  it  makes  me  feel  unhappy,  some 
how.  I  never  was  much  of  a  scribe,  and  it 's 
too  late  for  me  to  learn  now. 

I  don't  feel  so  downcast  when  I  examine  the 
specimens  of  writing  done  by  the  children  of  Dis»- 
trict  No.  34.  I  can  just  see  the  young  ones  work- 


THE  COUNTY   FAIR  241 

ing  at  home  on  these  things,  with  their  tongues 
stuck  out  of  one  corner  of  their  mouths. 

"Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day 
Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day 
Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day  " 

and  so  on,  bearing  down  hard  on  the  down- 
stroke  of  the  curve  in  the  capital  "R,"  and  club 
bing  the  end  of  the  little  "t."  And  in  the  higher 
grades,  they  toil  over  "An  Original  Social  Let 
ter,"  describing  to  an  imaginary  correspondent  a 
visit  to  Crystal  Lake,  or  the  Magnetic  Springs.  I 
can  hear  them  mourn:  "What  shall  I  say  next  ?" 
and  "Ma,  make  Effie  play  some  place  else,  won't 
you  ?  She  jist  joggles  the  table  like  everything. 
Now,  see  what  you  done!  Now  I  got  to  write  it 
all  over  again.  No,  I  cain't  'scratch  it  out.' 
How  'd  it  look  to  the  County  Fair  all  scratched 
out  ?  Plague  take  it  all ! " 

The  same  hands  have  done  maps  of  North  and 
South  America,  and  red-and-blue  ink  pictures  of 
the  circulation  of  the  blood.  It  does  beat  all  how 
smart  the  young  ones  are  nowadays.  I  could  no 
more  draw  off  a  picture  of  the  circulation  of  the 


242  BACK  HOME 

blood  —  get  it  right,  I  mean  —  why,  I  would  n't 

attempt  it. 

I  am  kind  of  mixed  up  in  my  recollection  of 
the  hall  right  next  to  the  Fine  Arts.  You  know  it 
had  two  doors  in  each  end.  Sometimes  I  can  see 
the  central  space  between  the  doors,  roped  off 
and  devoted  to  sewing-machines  with  persons 
demonstrating  that  they  ran  as  light  as  a  feather, 
and  how  it  was  no  trouble  at  all  to  tuck  and 
gather,  and  fell;  to  organs,  which  struck  me  with 
amaze,  because  by  some  witchcraft  (octave 
coupler,  I  think  they  called  it)  the  man  could 
play  on  keys  that  he  did  n't  touch,  and  pianos, 
whereon  young  ladies  were  prevailed  to  perform 
"Silvery  Waves"  —  that's  a  lovely  piece,  I 
think,  don't  you  ?  —  and 

"Listen  to  the  mocking-bird,  TEE-dle-eedle-DONG 
Lisen  to  the  mockitng-bird,  teedle-eedle-EE-dle  DONG 
The  mocking-bird  still  singing  o'er  her  grave,  tooma- 
tooral-oo-ral-LEE  !  '* 

And  then  again  I  can  see  that  central,  roped-off 
space  given  over  to  reckless  deviltry,  sheer  impu 
dent,  brazen-faced,  bold,  discipline-defying  er  — 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  243 

er  —  wickedness.  I  had  heard  that  people  did 
things  like  that,  but  this  was  the  first  time  I  had 
ever  caught  a  glimpse  of  such  carryings-on  in  the 
broad  open  daylight,  right  before  everybody.  I 
stood  there  and  watched  them  for  hours,  expect 
ing  every  minute  to  see  fire  fall  from  heaven  on 
them  and  burn  up  every  son  and  daughter  of  Be 
lial.  But  it  did  n't. 

I  seem  to  recollect  that  it  was  a  hot  day,  and 
that,  tucked  away  where  not  a  breath  of  air  could 
get  to  them,  were  three  fellows  in  their  shirt 
sleeves,  one  playing  on  an  organ,  one  on  a  yellow 
clarinet,  and  one  on  a  fiddle.  Every  chance  he 
could  get,  the  fiddler  would  say  to  the  organist : 
"Gimme  A,  please,"  and  saw  away  trying  to  get 
into  some  sort  of  tune,  but  the  catgut  was  never 
twisted  that  would  hold  to  pitch  with  the  per 
spiration  dribbling  down  his  fingers  in  little  rills. 
The  clarinet  man  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  cry, 
and  he  had  to  twitter  his  eyelids  all  the  time  to 
keep  the  sweat  from  blinding  him,  and  every 
once  in  a  while,  his  soggy  reed  would  let  go  of  a 
squawk  that  sounded  like  a  scared  chicken.  But 
the  organ  groaned  on  unrelentingly,  and  the 
tune  did  n't  matter  so  much  as  the  rhythm 


244  BACK  HOME 

which  was  kept  up  as  regular  as  a  clock,  whack ! 
whack!  whack!  whack!  And  there  were  two  or 
three  other  fellows  with  badges  on  that  went 
around  shouting:  "Select  your  podners  for  the 
next  quadrille!  One  more  couple  wanted  right 
over  here!" 

Dancing.  M-hm. 

The  fiddler  "called  off"  and  chanted  to  the 
tune,  with  his  mouth  on  one  side:  "Sullootch 
podners!  First  couple  forward  and  back.  Side 
couples  the  same.  Doe  see  do-o-o-o.  Al-lee-man 
LEFT!  Bal-lunce  ALL!  Sa-weeng  the  corners!" 
I  don't  know  whether  I  get  the  proper  order  of 
these  commands  or  not,  or  whether  my  memory 
serves  me  as  to  their  effect,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  at  "Bal-lunce  ALL  !"  the  ladies  demurely 
teetered,  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other, 
like  a  frozen-toed  rooster,  while  the  gents  fairly 
tore  themselves  apart  with  grape-vine  twists  and 
fancy  steps,  and  slapped  the  dust  out  of  the 
cracks  in  the  floor.  'When  it  came  to  "Sa- 
WEENG  your  podners!"  the  room  billowed  with 
flying  skirts,  and  the  ladies  squealed  like  any 
thing.  It  made  you  a  little  dizzy  to  watch  them 
do  "Graaan'  right  and  left,"  and  you  could 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  245 

understand  how  those  folks  felt  —  there  were 
always  one  or  two  in  each  set  —  who  had  to 
be  hauled  this  way  and  that,  not  sure  whether 
they  were  having  a  good  time  or  not,  but  hoping 
they  were,  their  faces  set  in  a  sickly  grin,  while 
their  foreheads  wrinkled  into  a  puzzled:  "How  's 
that  ?  I  did  n't  quite  catch  that  last  remark"  ex 
pression.  I  don't  know  if  it  affected  you  in  the 
same  way  that  it  did  me,  but  after  I  had  stood 
there  for  a  time  and  watched  those  young  men 
and  women  thus  wasting  the  precious  moments 
that  dropped  like  priceless  pearls  into  the  ocean 
of  Eternity,  and  were  lost  irrevocably,  young 
men  and  women  giving  themselves  up  to  present 
enjoyment  without  one  serious  thought  in  their 
minds  as  to  who  was  going  to  wash  the  supper 
dishes,  or  what  would  happen  if  the  house 
took  fire  while  they  were  away  —  I  say  I  do 
not  know  how  the  sight  of  such  reckless  friv 
olity  affected  you,  but  I  know  that  after  so 
long  a  time  my  face  would  get  all  cramped  up 
from  wearing  a  grin,  and  I  'd  have  to  go 
out  and  look  at  the  reapers  and  binders  to  rest 
myself  so  I  could  come  back  and  look  some 
more. 


246  BACK   HOME 

There  are  two  things  that  you  simply  have  to 
do  at  the  County  Fair,  or  you  are  n't  right  sure 
you  've  been.  One  is  to  drink  a  glass  of  sweet 
cider  just  from  the  press,  (which,  I  may  say  in 
passing,  is  an  over-rated  luxury.  Cider  has  to  be 
just  the  least  bit  "frisky"  to  be  good.  I  don't 
mean  hard,  but  "frisky."  You  know).  And  the 
other  is  to  buy  a  whip,  if  it*  is  only  the,  little  toy, 
fifteen-cent  kind.  On  the  next  soap-box  to  the 
old  fellow  that  comes  every  year  to  sell  pictorial 
Bibles  and  red,  plush-covered  albums,  the  old 
fellow  in  the  green  slippers  that  talks  as  if  he 
were  just  ready  to  drop  off  to  sleep  —  on  the  next 
soap-box  to  him  is  the  man  that  sells  the  whips. 
You  can  buy  one  for  a  dollar,  two  for  a  dollar,  or 
four  for  a  dollar,  but  not  one  for  fifty  cents,  or 
one  for  a  quarter.  Don't  ask  me  why,  for  I  don't 
know.  I  am  just  stating  the  facts.  It  can't  be 
done,  for  I  've  seen  it  tried,  and  if  you  keep  up 
the  attempt  too  long,  the  whip-man  will  lose  all 
patience  with  your  unreasonableness,  and  tell 
you  to  go  'long  about  your  business  if  you  've  got 
any,  and  not  bother  the  life  and  soul  out  of  him, 
because  he  won't  sell  anything  but  a  dollar's 
worth  of  whips,  and  that 's  all  there  is  about  it. 


THE  COUNTY   FAIR  247 

He  sells  other  things,  handsaws,  and  pencils, 
and  mouth-harps,  and  two  knives  for  a  quarter, 
of  such  pure  steel  that  he  whittles  shavings  off  a 
wire  nail  with  'em,  and  is  particular  to  hand  you 
the  very  identical  knife  he  did  it  with.  He  has 
jewelry,  though  I  don't  suppose  you  could  cut  a 
wire  nail  with  it.  You  might,  at  that. 

To  him  approaches  a  boy. 

"Got  'ny  collar-buttons  ?" 

"Well,  now,  I  '11  just  look  and  see.  Here  's  a 
beautiful  rolled-plate  gold  watch-chain,  with  an 
elegant  jewel  charm.  Lovely  blue  jewel."  He 
dangles  the  chain  and  its  rich  glass  pendant,  and 
it  certainly  does  look  fine.  "That'd  cost  you 
$2.50  at  the  store.  How  'd  that  strike  you  ?" 

"Hpm.  I  want  a  collar-button." 

"Well,  now,  you  hold  on  a  minute.  Lemme 
look  again.  Ah,  here  's  a  package  'at  orta  have 
some  in  it.  Yes,  sir,  here  's  four  of  'em,  enough  to 
last  you  a  lifetime;  front,  back,  and  both  sleeves, 
the  kind  that  flips  and  don't  tear  the  buttonholes. 
Well,  by  ginger!  Now,  how  'd  that  git  in  here, 
I  want  to  know  ?  That  gold  ring  ?  Well,  I 
don't  care.  It  '11  have  to  go  with  the  collar- 
buttons.  Tell  you  what  I  '11  do  with  you:  I  '11 


248  BACK  HOME 

let  you  have  this  elegant  solid  gold  rolled-plate 
watch-chain  and  jewel,  this  elegant,  solid 
gold  ring  to  git  married  with  —  Hay?  how 
about  it  ?  —  and  these  four  collar-buttons  for 
—  for — twenty-five  cents,  or  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar." 

That  boy  never  took  that  quarter  out  of  his 
breeches  pocket.  It  just  jumped  out  of  itself. 

But  I  see  that  you  are  getting  the  fidgets. 
You  're  hoping  that  I  '11  come  to  the  horse-racing 
pretty  soon.  You  want  to  have  it  all  brought  back 
to  you,  the  big,  big  race-track  which,  as  you  re 
member  it  now,  must  have  been  about  the  next 
size  smaller  than  the  earth's  orbit  around  the  sun. 
You  want  me  to  tell  about  the  old  farmer  with 
the  bunch  of  timothy  whiskers  under  his  chin 
that  gets  his  old  jingling  wagon  on  the  track  just 
before  a  heat  is  to  be  trotted,  and  all  the  people 
yell  at  him:  "Take  him  out!'5  You  want  me  to 
tell  how  the  trotters  looked  walking  around  in 
their  dusters,  with  the  eye-holes  bound  with  red 
braid,  and  how  the  drivers  of  the  sulkies  sat  with 
the  tails  of  their  horses  tucked  under  one  leg. 
Well,  I  'm  not  going  to  do  anything  of  the  kind, 
and  if  you  don't  like  it,  you  can  go  to  the  box- 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR  249 

office  and  demand  your  money  back.  I  hope 
you  '11  get  it. 

First  place,  I  don't  know  anything  about  rac 
ing,  and  consequently  I  don't  believe  it 's  a  good 
thing  for  the  country.  All  I  know  is,  that  some 
horses  can  go  faster  than  others,  but  which  are 
the  fastest  ones  I  can't  tell  by  the  looks,  though  I 
have  tried  several  times.  .  .  .  Ididwofwalk 
back.  I  bought  a  round-trip  ticket.  They  will 
tell  you  that  these  events  at  the  County  Fair  tend 
to  improve  the  breed  of  horses.  So  they  do  —  of 
fast  horses.  But  the  fast  horses  are  no  good.  They 
can't  any  of  them  go  as  fast  as  a  nickel  trolley- 
car  when  it  gets  out  where  there  are  n't  any 
houses.  And  they  not  only  are  no  good;  they  're  a 
positive  harm.  You  know  and  I  know  that  just  as 
soon  as  a  man  gets  cracked  after  fast  horses,  it 's 
good-by  John  with  him. 

In  the  next  place,  I  would  n't  mind  it  if  it  was 
only  interesting  to  me.  But  it  is  n't.  It  bores  me  to 
death.  You  sit  there  and  sit  there  trying  to  keep 
awake  while  the  drivers  jockey  and  jockey? 
scheming  to  get  the  advantage  of  the  other  fellow, 
and  the  bell  rings  so  many  times  for  them  to 
come  back  after  you  think:  "They're  off  this 


250  BACK  HOME 

time,  sure,"  that  you  get  sick  of  hearing  it.  And 
when  they  do  get  away,  why,  who  can  tell  which 
horse  is  in  the  lead  ?  On  the  far  side  of  the  track 
they  don't  appear  to  do  anything  but  poke 
along,  and  once  in  a  while  some  fool  horse  will 
"break"  and  that's  annoying.  And  then  when 
they  come  into  the  stretch,  the  other  folks  that 
see  you  with  the  field-glasses,  keep  nudging  you 
and  asking:  "Who's  ahead,  mister?  Hay? 
Who  's  ahead  ?  "  And  it 's  ruinous  to  the  voice  to 
yell:  "Go  it!  Go  it!  Go  IT,  ye  devil,  you!"  with 
your  throat  all  clenched  that  way  and  your  face 
as  red  as  a  turkey-gobbler's.  And  that  second 
when  they  are  going  under  the  wire,  and  the 
horse  you  rather  like  is  about  a  nose  behind  the 
other  one  that  you  despise  —  Oh,  tedious,  very 
tedious.  Ho  hum,  Harry!  If  I  was  n't  engaged,  I 
would  n't  marry.  Did  you  think  to  put  a  saucer 
of  milk  out  for  the  kitty  before  you  locked  up  the 
house  ? 

No.  Horse-racing  bores  me  to  death,  and  as  I 
am  one  of  the  charter  members  of  the  Anti- 
Other-Folks-Enjoyment  Society,  organized  to 
stop  people  from  amusing  themselves  in  ways 
that  we  don't  care  for,  you  can  readily  see  that  it 


THE  COUNTY   FAIR  251 

is  a  matter  of  principle  with  me  to  ignore  horse- 
racing,  and  not  to  give  it  so  much  encourage 
ment  as  would  come  from  mentioning  it. 

If  you  're  so  interested  in  improving  the  breed 
of  horses  by  competitive  contests,  what 's  the 
matter  with  that  one  where  the  prize  is  $5  for  the 
team  that  can  haul  the  heaviest  load  on  a  stone- 
boat,  straight  pulling  ?  Pile  on  enough  stones  to 
build  a  house,  pretty  near,  and  the  owner  of  the 
team,  a  young  fellow  with  a  face  like  Keats,  goes : 
"Ck!Ck!Ck!Geet  ...  ep  ...  thah 
.  .  .  BILL!  Geet  ep,  Doll-ay!"  and  cracks 
his  whip,  and  kisses  with  his  mouth,  and  the 
horses  dance  and  tug,  and  jump  around  and 
strain  till  the  stone-boat  slides  on  the  grass,  and 
then  men  climb  on  until  the  load  gets  so  heavy 
that  the  team  can't  budge  it.  Then  another  team 
tries,  and  so  on,  the  competitors  jawing  and  jow- 
ering  at  each  other  with:  "Ah,  that  ain't  fair! 
That  ain't  fair!  They  started  it  sideways." 

"That  don't  make  no  difference." 

"Yes,  it  does,  too,  make  a  difference.  Straight 
ahead  four  inches.  That 's  the  rule. " 

"Well,  did  n't  they  go  straight  ahead  four 
inches  ?  What 's  a  matter  with  ye  ?" 


252  BACK  HOME 

"I  '11  darn  soon  show  ye  what 's  the  matter 
with  me,  you  come  any  o'  your  shenannigan 
around  here." 

"Mighty  ready  to  accuse  other  folks  o'  she 
nannigan,  ain't  ye  ?  For  half  a  cent  I  'd  paste  you 
in  the  snoot. " 

"Now,  boys!  Now  boys!  None  o'  that." 

Lots  more  excitement  than  a  horse-race.  Lots 
more  improving  to  the  mind,  and  beneficial  to 
the  country. 

And  if  you  hanker  after  the  human  element  of 
skill,  what 's  the  matter  with  the  contest  where 
the  women  see  who  can  hitch  up  a  horse  the 
quickest  ?  Did  n't  you  have  your  favorite  picked 
out  from  the  start  ?  I  did.  She  was  about  thirteen 
years  old,  dressed  in  an  organdie,  and  I  think  she 
had  light  blue  ribbons  flying  from  her  hat,  light 
blue  or  pink,  I  forget  which.  Her  pa  helped  her 
unharness,  and  you  could  tell  by  the  way  he  look- 
at  her  that  he  thought  she  was  about  the  smartest 
young  one  for  her  age  in  her  neighborhood.  (You 
ought  to  hear  her  play  "General  Grant's  Grand 
March"  on  the  organ  he  bought  for  her,  a  fine 
organ  with  twenty-four  stops  and  two  full  sets  of 
reeds,  and  a  mirror  in  the  top,  and  places  to  set 


THE  COUNTY   FAIR  253 

bouquets  and  all.) There  was  a  woman  in  the  con 
test  that  seemed,  by  her  actions,  to  think  that  the 
others  were  just  wasting  their  time  competing 
with  her,  but  when  they  got  the  word  "Go!" 
(Old  Nate  Wells  was  the  judge;  he  sold  out  the 
livery-stable  business  to  Charley,  you  recollect) 
her  horse  backed  in  wrong,  and  she  got  the  har 
ness  all  twisty-ways,  and  everything  went  be 
witched.  And  was  n't  she  provoked,  though  ? 
Served  her  right,  I  say.  A  little  woman  beside 
her  was  the  first  to  jump  into  her  buggy,  and 
drive  off  with  a  strong  inhalation  of  breath,  and 
that  nipping  together  of  the  lips  that  says: 
"  A-a-ah!  I  tell  ye!"  The  little  girl  that  we  picked 
out  was  hopping  around  like  a  scared  cockroach, 
and  her  pa  seemed  to  be  saying:  "Now,  keep 
cool!  Keep  cool!  Don't  get  flustered,"  but  when 
another  woman  drove  off,  I  know  she  almost 
cried,  she  felt  so  bad.  But  she  was  third,  and 
when  she  and  her  pa  drove  around  the  ring,  the 
people  clapped  her  lots  more  than  the  other 
two.  I  guess  they  must  have  picked  her  for  a 
favorite  the  same  as  you  and  I  did.  Bless 
her  heart!  I  hope  she  got  a  good  man  when  she 
grew  up. 


254  BACK   HOME 

Around  back  of  the  Old  Settlers'  Cabin,  where 
they  have  the  relics,  the  spinning-wheel,  the  flax- 
hackle,  and  the  bunch  of  dusty  tow  that  nobody 
knows  how  to  spin  in  these  degenerate  days;  the 
old  flint-lock  rifle,  and  the  powder-horn;  the 
tinder-box,  and  the  blue  plate,  "  more  'n  a  hun 
dred  years  old;"  the  dog-irons,  tongs,  poker,  and 
turkey-wing  of  an  ancient  fireplace  —  around 
back  of  the  Old  Settlers'  Cabin  all  the  early  part 
of  the  day  a  bunch  of  dirty  canvas  has  been 
dangling  from  a  rope  stretched  between  two  trees. 
It  was  fenced  off  from  the  curious,  but  after  din 
ner  a  stranger  in  fringy  trousers  and  a  black 
singlet  went  around  picking  out  big,  strong,  ad 
venturous  young  fellows  to  stand  about  the 
wooden  ring  fastened  to  the  bottom  of  the  bunch 
of  canvas,  which  went  over  the  smoke-pipe  of  a 
sort  of  underground  furnace  in  which  a  roaring 
fire  had  been  built.  As  the  hot  air  filled  the  great 
bag,  it  was  the  task  of  these  helpers  to  shake  out 
the  wrinkles  and  to  hold  it  down.  Older  and  wiser 
ones  forbade  their  young  ones  to  go  near  it.  Sup 
posing  it  should  explode;  what  then  ?  But  we  have 
always  wanted  to  fly  away  up  into  the  air,  and 
what  did  we  come  to  the  Fair  for,  if  not  for  ex- 


THE  COUNTY   FAIR  255 

citement  ?  The  balloon  swells  out  amazingly  fast, 
and  when  the  guy-ropes  are  loosened  and  drop  to 
the  ground,  the  elephantine  bag  clumsily  lunges 
this  way  and  that,  causing  shrill  squeals  from 
those  who  fear  to  be  whelmed  in  it.  The  man  in 
the  singlet  tosses  kerosene  into  the  furnace  from 
a  tin  cup,  and  you  can  see  the  tall  flames  leap 
upward  from  the  flue  into  the  balloon.  It  grows 
tight  as  a  drum. 

"Watch  your  horses!"  he  calls  out.  There  is  a 
pause.  .  .  .  "Let  go  all!"  The  mighty 
shape  shoots  up  twenty  feet  or  so,  and  the  man 
in  the  singlet  darts  to  the  corner  to  cut  a  lone  de 
taining  rope.  As  he  runs  he  sheds  his  fringy 
trousers. 

"Good-by,  everybody!"  he  cries  out,  and  the 
sinister  possibilities  in  that  phrase  are  over 
looked  in  the  wonder  at  seeing  him  lurch  up 
ward  through  the  air,  all  glorious  in  black  tights 
and  yellow  breech-clout.  Up  and  up  he  soars 
above  the  tree-tops,  and  the  wind  gently  wafts 
him  along,  a  pendant  to  a  dusky  globe  hanging 
in  the  sky.  He  is  just  a  speck  now  swaying  to  and 
fro.  The  globe  plunges  upward;  the  pendant 
drops  like  a  shot.  There  is  a  rustling  sound.  It  is 


256  BACK   HOME 

the  intake  of  the  breath  of  horror  from  ten  thous 
and  pairs  of  lungs.  Look !  Look !  The  edges  of  the 
parachute  ruffle,  and  then  it  blossoms  out  like  an 
opening  flower.  It  bounces  on  the  air  a  little,  and 
rocking  gently  sinks  like  thistle-down  behind  the 
woods. 

It  is  all  over.  The  Fair  is  over.  Let 's  go  home. 
Isn't  it  wonderful  though,  what  men  can  do  ? 
You  '11  see;  they  '11  be  flying  like  birds,  one  of 
these  days.  That 's  what  we  little  boys  think, 
but  we  overhear  old  Nate  Wells  say  to  Tom  Slay- 
maker,  as  we  pass  them:  "Well,  I  d'  know.  I  d' 
know  's  these  here  b'loon  ascensions  is  worth  the 
money  they  cost  the  'Sociation.  I  seen  so  many 
of  'em,  they  don't  interest  me  nummore.  'Less, 
o'  course,  sumpun  should  happen  to  the  feller. " 


CHRISTMAS  BACK  HOME 

IT  was  the  time  of  year  when  the  store  win 
dows  are  mighty  interesting.  Plotner's  bak 
ery,  that  away,  'way  back  in  the  summer 
time,  was  an  ice-cream  saloon,  showed  a  plaster 
man  in  the  window,  with  long,  white  whiskers,  in 
top  boots  and  a  brown  coat  and  peaked  hat,  all 
trimmed  with  fur,  and  carrying  a  little  pinetree 
with  arsenical  foliage.  Over  his  head  dangled  a 
thicket  of  canes  hanging  by  their  crooks  from  a 
twine  string  stretched  across.  They  were  made  of 
candy  striped  spirally  in  red  and  white.  There 
were  candy  men  and  women  in  the  window,  and 
chocolate  mice  with  red  eyes,  and  a  big  cake,  all 
over  frosting,  with  a  candy  preacher  on  it  marry 
ing  a  candy  man  and  lady.  The  little  children 
stood  outside,  with  their  joggerfies,  and  arith 
metics,  and  spellers,  and  slates  bound  in  red  flan 
nel  under  their  arms,  and  swallowed  hard  as  they 

257 


258  BACK  HOME 

looked.  Whenever  anybody  went  in  for  a  penny's 
worth  of  yeast  and  opened  the  door,  that  had  a 
bell  fastened  to  it  so  that  Mrs.  Plotner  could  hear 
in  the  back  room,  and  come  to  wait  on  the  cus 
tomer,  the  smell  of  wintergreen  and  peppermint 
and  lemon-sticks  and  hot  taffy  gushed  out  so 
strong  that  they  could  n't  swallow  fast  enough, 
but  stood  there  choking  and  dribbling  at  the 
mouth. 

Brown's  shoe  store  exhibited  green  velvet 
slippers  with  deers'  heads  on  them,  and  Gal- 
braith's  windows  were  hung  with  fancy  dress- 
goods,  and  handkerchiefs  with  dogs'  heads  in  the 
corners;  but,  next  to  Plotner's,  Case's  drug-and- 
book  store  was  the  nicest.  When  you  first  went 
in,  it  smelled  of  cough  candy  and  orris  root,  but 
pretty  soon  you  could  notice  the  smell  of  drums 
and  new  sleds,  and  about  the  last  smell,  (sort  of 
down  at  the  bottom  of  things)  was  the  smell  of 
new  books,  the  fish-glue  on  the  binding,  and  the 
muslin  covers,  and  the  printer's  ink,  and  that  is  a 
smell  that  if  it  ever  gets  a  good  hold  of  you,  never 
lets  go.  There  were  the  "Rollo"  books,  and  the 
"Little  Prudy"  books,  and  "Minnie  and  Her 
Pets,"  and  the  "Elm  Island"  series,  and  the 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  259 

"Arabian  Nights,"  with  colored  pictures,  and 
.  .  .  There  were  skates  all  curled  up  at  the 
toes,  and  balls  of  red  and  black  leather  in 
alternate  quarters,  and  China  mugs,  with 
"Love  the  Giver,"  and  "For  a  Good  Boy" 
in  gilt  letters  on  them.  Kind  of  Dutch  letters 
they  were.  And  there  were  dolls  with  black,  shiny 
hair,  and  red  cheeks,  and  blue  eyes,  with  per 
fectly  arched  eyebrows.  They  had  on  black  shoes 
and  white  stockings,  with  pink  garters,  and  they 
almost  always  toed  in  a  little.  They  looked  so 
cold  in  the  window  with  nothing  but  a  "shim 
my"  on,  and  fairly  ached  to  be  dressed,  and 
nursed,  and  sung  to.  The  little  girls  outside  the 
window  felt  an  emptiness  in  the  hollow  of  their 
left  arms  as  they  gazed.  There  was  one  big  doll 
in  the  middle  all  dressed  up.  It  had  real  hair  that 
you  could  comb,  and  it  was  wax.  Pure  wax!  Yes, 
sir.  And  it  could  open  and  shut  its  eyes,  and  if 
you  squeezed  its  stomach  it  would  cry,  of  course, 
not  like  a  real  baby,  but  more  like  one  of  those 
ducks  that  stand  on  a  sort  of  bellows  thing. 
Though  they  all  "chose"  that  doll  and  hoped  for 
miracles,  none  of  them  really  expected  to  find  it 
in  her  stocking  sixteen  days  later.  (They  kept 


260  BACK  HOME 

count  of  the  days.)  Maybe  Bell  Brown  might  get 
it;  her  pa  bought  her  lots  of  things.  She  had  par 
lor  skates  and  a  parrot,  only  her  ma  would  n't  let 
her  skate  in  the  parlor,  it  tore  up  the  carpet  so, 
and  the  parrot  bit  her  finger  like  anything. 

The  little  boys  kicked  their  copper-toed  boots 
to  keep  warm  and  quarreled  about  which  one 
chose  the  train  of  cars  first,  and  then  began  to 
quarrel  over  an  army  of  soldiers. 

"I  choose  them!" 

"  A-aw!  You  choosed  the  ingine  and  the  cars. " 

"Oung  care.  I  choose  everything  in  this 
whole  window." 

"A-aw!  That  ain't  fair!" 

In  the  midst  of  the  wrangle  somebody  finds 
out  that  Johnny  Pym  has  a  piece  of  red  glass,  and 
then  they  begin  fighting  for  turns  looking 
through  it  at  the  snow  and  the  court-house.  But 
not  for  long.  They  fall  to  bragging  about  what 
they  are  going  to  get  for  Christmas.  Eddie 
Cameron  was  pretty  sure  he  'd  get  a  spy-glass. 
He  asked  his  pa,  and  his  pa  said  "  Mebby.  He  'd 
see  about  it."  Then,  Justin  time,  they  looked 
up  and  saw  old  man  Nicholson  coming  along 
with  his  shawl  pinned  around  him.  They 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  261 

ran  to  the  other  side  of  the  street  because 
he  stops  little  boys,  and  pats  them  on  the  head, 
and  asks  them  if  they  have  found  the  Savior. 
It  makes  some  boys  cry  when  he  asks  them 
that. 

The  Rowan  twins  —  Alfaretta  and  Luanna 
May  —  are  working  a  pair  of  slippers  for  their 
pa,  one  apiece,  because  it  is  such  slow  work. 
Along  about  supper-time  they  make  Elmer  Lon- 
nie  stay  outside  and  watch  for  his  coming,  and 
he  has  to  say  :  "Hello,  pa!"  very  loud,  and  romp 
with  him  outside  the  gate  so  as  to  give  the  twins 
time  to  gather  up  the  colored  zephyrs  and  things, 
and  hide  them  in  the  lower  bureau  drawer  in  the 
spare  bedroom.  At  such  a  time  their  mother  finds 
an  errand  that  takes  her  into  the  parlor  so  that 
she  can  see  that  they  do  not,  by  any  chance,  look 
into  the  middle  drawer  in  the  farther  left-hand 
corner,  under  the  pillow-slips. 

One  night,  just  at  supper-time,  Elmer  Lonnie 
said:  "Hello,  pa!"  and  then  they  heard  pa  whis 
pering  and  Elmer  Lonnie  came  in  looking  very 
solemn — or  trying  to  —  and  said:  "Ma,  Miss' 
Waldo  wants  to  know  if  you  won't  please  step 
over  there  a  minute." 


262  BACK  HOME 

"  Did  she  say  what  for  ?  Because  I  'm  right  in 
the  midst  of  getting  supper.  I  look  for  your  pa 
any  minute  now,  and  I  don't  want  to  keep  him 
waiting. " 

"No'm,  she  didn't  say  what  for.  She  jist 

said:  'Ast  yer  ma  won't  she  please  an'  step  over 

here  a  minute.'  I  wouldn't  put  anythin'  on. 

'T  ain't  cold.  You  need  n't  stay  long,  only  till 

.     I  guess  she  's  in  some  of  a  hurry. " 

"Well,  if  Harriet  Waldo  thinks  'at  I  have  n't 
anythin'  better  to  do  'n  trot  around  after 
her  at  her  beck  an'.  ...  All  right,  I  '11 


come." 


The  twins  got  their  slippers  hid,  and  Mrs. 
Rowan  threw  her  shawl  over  her  head,  and  went 
next  door  to  take  Mrs.  Waldo  completely  by 
surprise.  The  good  woman  immediately  invented 
an  intricate  problem  in  crochet  work  demanding 
instant  solution.  Mr.  Rowan  had  brought  home 
a  crayon  enlargement  of  a  daguerreotype  of  Ma, 
taken  before  she  was  married,  when  they  wore 
their  hair  combed  down  over  their  ears,  and  wide 
lace  collars  fastened  with  a  big  cameo  pin,  and 
puffed  sleeves  with  the  armholes  nearly  at  the 
elbows.  They  wore  lace  mitts  then,  too.  The 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  263 

twins  thought  it  looked  so  funny,  but  Pa  said: 
"It  was  all  the  style  in  them  days.  Laws!  I  mind 
the  first  time  I  took  her  home  from  singin'  school. 
.  .  .  Tell  you  where  less  hide  it.  In  between 
the  straw  tick,  and  the  feather  tick."  And  Luan- 
na  May  said:  "What  if  company  should  come  ?" 
Elmer  Lonnie  ran  over  to  Mrs.  Waldo's  to  tell 
Ma  that  Pa  had  come  home,  and  wanted  his  sup 
per  right  quick,  because  he  had  to  get  back  to  the 
store,  there  was  so  much  trade  in  the  evenings 
now. 

"I  declare,  Emmeline  Rowan,  you  're  gettin' 
to  be  a  reg'lar  gadabout,"  said  Mr.  Rowan,  very 
savagely.  "Gad,  gad,  gad,  from  mornin'  till 
night.  Ain't  they  time  in  daylight  fer  you  an'  Hat 
Waldo  to  talk  about  your  neighbors  'at  you  can't 
stay  home  long  enough  to  git  me  my  supper  ? " 

He  winked  at  the  twins  so  funny  that  Alfaret- 
ta,  who  always  was  kind  of  flighty,  made  a  little 
noise  with  her  soft  palate  and  tried  to  pass  it  off 
for  a  cough.  Luanna  May  poked  her  in  the  ribs 
with  her  elbow,  and  Mrs.  Rowan  spoke  up  quite 
loud:  "Why,  Pa,  how  you  go  on!  I  was  n't  but  a 
minute,  an'  you  hardly  ever  come  before  half- 
past.  And  furthermore,  mister,  I  want  to  know 


264  BACK  HOME 

how  I  'm  to  keep  this  house  a-lookin'  like  any 
thing  an'  you  a-trackin'  in  snow  like  that.  Just 
look  at  you.  I  sh'd  think  you  'd  know  enough  to 
stomp  your  feet  before  you  come  in.  Luanna 
May,  you  come  grind  the  coffee.  Alfie,  run  git 
your  Pa  his  old  slippers."  That  set  both  of  them 
to  giggling,  and  Mrs.  Rowan  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  and  began  to  pound  the  beefsteak. 

"D'you  think  she  sispicioned  anythin'?" 
asked  Mr.  Rowan  out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth, 
and  Elmer  Lonnie  said,  "No,  sir,"  and  wonder 
ed  if  his  Pa  "sispicioned  anythin'"  when  Ma 
said,  "Run  git  the  old  slippers." 

Mr.  Waldo  always  walked  up  with  Mr.  Row 
an,  and  just  about  that  time  his  little  Mary  Ellen 
was  climbing  up  into  his  lap  and  saying:  "I  bet 
you  can't  guess  what  I  'm  a-goin'  to  buy  you  for 
a  Christmas  gift  with  mv  pennies  what  I  got 
saved  up." 

"I '11  just  bet  I  can." 

"No,  you  can't.  It 's  awful  pretty  —  I  mean, 
they  're  awful  pretty.  Somepin  you  want,  too." 
How  could  he  guess  with  her  fingering  his  tar 
nished  cuff  buttons  and  looking  down  at  them 
every  minute  or  two  ? 


CHRISTMAS  BACK  HOME  265 

"Well,  now,  let  me  see.  Is  it  a  gold  watch  ?" 
"Nope." 

"Aw,  now!  I  jist  set  my  heart  on  a  gold  watch 
and  chain." 

"Well,  but  it'd  cost  more  money  'n  I  got. 
Three  or  fifteen  dollars,  mebby." 
"Well,  let  me  see.  Is  it  a  shotgun  ?" 
"No,  sir.  Oh,  you  just  can't  guess  it." 
"Is  it  a  —  a  —  Is  it  a  horse  and  buggy  ?" 
"Aw,  now,  you  're  foolin'.  No,  it  ain't  a  horse 
and  buggy." 

"I  know  what  it  is.  It  Js  a  dolly  with  real  hair 
that  you  can  comb,  and  all  dressed  up  in  a  blue 
dress.  One  that  can  shut  its  eyes  when  it  goes 
bye-bye." 

Little  Mary  Ellen  looks  at  him  very  seriously 
a  minute,  and  sighs,  and  says:  "No,  it  ain't 
that.  But  if  it  was,  would  n't  you  let  me 
play  with  it  when  you  was  to  the  store  ?  " 
And  he  catches  her  up  in  his  arms  and  says: 
"You  betchy!  Now,  I  ain't  goin'  to  guess 
any  more!  I  want  to  be  surprised.  You  jump 
down  an'  run  an'  ask  Ma  if  supper  ain't  most 
ready.  Tell  her  I  'm  as  hungry  as  a  hound 
pup." 


266  BACK  HOME 

He  hears  her  deliver  the  message,  and  also  the 
word  her  mother  sends  back:  "Tell  him  to  hold 
his  horses.  It  '11  be  ready  in  a  minute." 

"  It  will,  eh  ?  Well,  I  can't  wait  a  minute,  an' 
I  'm  goin'  to  take  a  hog-bite  right  out  of  YOU!" 
and  he  snarls  and  bites  her  right  in  the  middle  of 
her  stomach,  and  if  there  is  anything  more 
ticklesome  than  that,  it  has  n't  been  heard  of  yet. 
After  supper,  little  Eddie  Allgire  teases  his 
brother  D.  to  tell  him  about  Santa  Claus.  D.  is 
cracking  walnuts  on  a  flat-iron  held  between  his 
knees. 

"Is  they  any  Santy  Claus,  D.  ?" 
"  W'y,  cert,  they  is.  Who  says  not  ?" 
"Bunty  Rogers  says  they  ain't  no  sech  a  per 


son." 


"You  tell  Bunt  Rogers  that  he  's  a-gittin'  too 
big  fer  his  britches,  an'  first  thing  he  knows,  he  '11 
whirl  round  an'  see  his  naked  nose.  Tell  him  I 
said  so." 

"Well,  is  they  any  Santy  Claus  ?" 

"W'y  cert.  Ain't  I  a-tellin'  you?  Laws!  ain't 
you  never  seen  him  yet  ?" 

"  I  seen  that  kind  of  a  idol  they  got  down  in 
Plotner's  winder." 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  267 

"Well,  he  looks  jist  like  that,  on'y  he  's  alive." 

"Did  you  ever  see  him,  D.  ?" 

"O-oh,  well!  Think  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  every 
thing  I  know  ?  Well,  I  guess  not." 

"Well,  but  did  you  now?" 

"MW/,  that 'd  be  tellin'." 

"Aw,  now,  D.,  tell  me." 

"Look  out  what  you  're  doin'.  Now  see  that. 
You  pretty  near  made  me  mash  my  thumb." 

"Aw,  now,  D.,  tell  me.  I  think  you  might.  I 
don't  believe  you  ever  did." 

"Oh,  you  don't,  hey  ?  Well,  if  you  had  'a  saw 
what  I  saw.  M-m/  Little  round  eyes  an'  red  nose 
an'  white  whiskers,  an'  heard  the  sleigh  bells,  an' 
oh,  my!  them  reindeers!  Cutest  little  things! 
Stompin'  their  little  feet — "  Here  he  stopped, 
and  went  on  cracking  nuts. 

"Tell  some  more.  Woncha,  please  ?  Ma,  make 
D.  tell  me  the  rest  of  it." 

"Huck-w/?/  Dassent.  'T  would  n'  be  right. 
Like  's  not  he  won't  put  anythin'  in  my  stockin' 
now  fer  what  I  did  tell." 

"How '11  he  know?" 

"How '11  he  know?  Easy  enough.  He  goes 
around  all  the  houses  evenings  now  to  see  how 


268  BACK  HOME 

the  young  ones  act,  an'  if  he  finds  they  're  sassy, 
an'  don't  mind  their  Ma  when  she  tells  them  to 
leave  the  cat  alone,  an'  if  they  whine:  'I  don' 
want  to  go  out  an'  cut  the  kindlin'.  Why  cain't  D. 
do  it  ?'  then  he  puts  potatoes  an'  lumps  o'  coal  in 
their  stockin's.  Oh,  he  '11  be  here,  course  o'  the 
evenin'." 

"D'  you  s'pose  he  's  round  here  now  ?"  Eddie 
got  a  little  closer  to  his  brother. 

"  I  would  n't  wonder.  Yes,  sir.  There  he  goes 
now.  Sure  's  you  're  alive.  " 

"Where?" 

"Right  over  yan.  Aw,  you  don't  look.  See? 
There  he  is.  Aw!  you  're  too  slow.  Did  n't  you 
see  him  ?  Now  the  next  time  I  tell  you  —  Look, 
look!  There!  He  run  right  acrost  the  floor  an'  into 
the  closet.  Plain  's  day.  Did  n't  you  see  him  ? 
You  saw  him,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Allgire  nodded  her  head.  She  was  busy 
counting  the  stitches  in  a  nubia  she  was  knitting 
for  old  Aunt  Pashy  Roebuck. 

"W'y,  you  could  n't  help  but  see  him.  Did  n't 
you  take  notice  to  his  white  whiskers  ?" 

"  Ye-es,"  said  the  child,  slowly,  with  the  wide- 
open  stare  of  hypnosis. 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  269 

"  Did  n't  you  see  the  evergreen  tree  he  car 
ried?" 

"M-hm,"  said  Eddie,  the  image  taking 
shape  in  his  mind's  eye. 

"And  his  brown  coat  all  trimmed  with  fur,  an* 
his  funny  peaked  hat  ?  An'  his  red  nose  ?  W'y, 
course  you  did."  The  boy  nodded  his  head.  He 
was  sure  now.  Yes.  Faith  was  lost  in  sight.  He 
believed. 

"  I  expect  he  's  in  the  closet  now.  Go  look." 

"No.  You."  He  clung  to  D. 

"I  can't.  I  got  this  flat-iron  in  my  lap,  an'  I  'd 
spill  the  nut-shells  all  over  the  floor.  You  don't 
want  me  to,  do  you,  Ma  ?" 

Mrs.  Allgire  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  now,"  said  D.  "Anybody  tell  you  they 
ain't  sich  a  person  as  Santy  Claus,  you  kin  jist 
stand  'em  down  'at  you  know  better,  'cause  you 
seen  him,  did  n't  you  ?" 

Eddie  nodded  his  head.  Anyhow,  what  D.  told 
him  was  "the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,"  and  now 
that  he  had  the  evidence  of  his  own  eyes  —  Well, 
the  next  day  he  defied  Bunt  Rogers  and  all  his 
works.  To  tell  the  plain  truth,  Bunt  was  n't  too 
well  grounded  in  his  newly  cut  infidelity. 


270  BACK  HOME 

In  the  public  schools  the  children  were  no 
longer  singing: 

"None  knew  tbee  but  to  love  thee,  tbou  dear  one  of  my 

heart; 

Ob,  thy  mem'ry  is  ever  fresh  and  green. 
"The  sweet  buds  may  wither  and  fond  hearts  be  broken, 
Still  I  love  thee,  my  darling,  Daisy  Deane." 

They  turned  over  now  to  page  53,  and  there 
was  a  picture  of  Santa  Claus  just  as  in  Plotner's 
window,  except  that  he  had  a  pack  on  his  back 
and  one  leg  in  the  chimney.  This  is  what  they 
sang: 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!  Who  would  n't  go? 
Ho,  ho,  ho!  Who  would  n't  go  ? 
Up  on  the  house-top,  click,  click,  click 
Down  through  the  chimney  with  good  St.  Nick." 

Miss  Munsell,  who  taught  the  D  primary, 
traded  rooms  with  Miss  Crutcher,  who  taught 
the  "a-b  abs."  Miss  Munsell  was  a  big  fat  lady, 
and  she  smiled  so  that  the  dimples  came  in  both 
cheeks  and  her  double  chin  was  doubler  than  ever, 
when  she  told  the  children  what  a  dear,  nice 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  271 

teacher  Miss  Crutcher  was,  and  how  fond  she 
was  of  them,  and  would  n't  they  like  to  make  a 
Christmas  present  to  their  dear,  kind  teacher  ? 
They  all  said  "Yes,  mam."  Well,  now,  the  way 
to  do  would  be  for  each  child  to  bring  money  (if 
Miss  Munsell  had  smiled  at  a  bird  in  the  tree  as 
she  did  then,  it  would  have  had  to  come  right 
down  and  perch  in  her  hand),  just  as  much  money 
as  ever  they  could,  and  all  must  bring  something, 
because  it  would  make  Miss  Crutcher  feel  so  bad 
to  think  that  there  was  one  little  boy  or  one  little 
girl  that  did  n't  love  her  enough  to  give  her  a 
Christmas  present.  And  if  everybody  brought  a 
dime  or  maybe  a  quarter,  they  could  get  her  such 
a  nice  present.  If  their  papas  would  n't  let  them 
have  that  much  money,  why  surely  they  would 
let  them  have  a  penny,  would  n't  they,  children  ? 
And  the  children  said:  "Yes,  mam." 

"And  now  all  that  love  their  dear,  kind  teach 
er,  raise  their  hands.  Why,  there  's  a  little  girl 
over  that  hasn't  her  hand  up!  That's  right, 
dear,  put  it  up,  bless  your  little  heart!  Now,  we 
must  n't  say  a  word  to  Miss  Crutcher,  must  we  ? 
No.  And  that  will  be  our  secret,  won't  it  ?  And  all 
be  sure  to  have  your  money  ready  by  to-morrow. 


272  BACK  HOME 

Now,  I  wonder  if  you  can  be  just  as  still  as 
little  mice.  I  'm  going  to  give  this  little  girl 
a  pin  to  drop  and  see  if  I  can  hear  it  out  in  the 
hall." 

Then  she  tiptoed  down  the  hall  clear  to  her 
own  room  and  Mary  Ellen  Waldo  let  the  pin 
drop,  and  Miss  Munsell  did  n't  come  back  to  say 
whether  she  heard  the  pin  drop  or  not.  The  chil 
dren  sat  in  breathless  silence.  Selma  Morgen- 
roth  knocked  her  slate  off  and  bit  her  lip  with 
mortification  while  the  others  looked  at  her  as 
much  as  to  say:  "Oh,  my!  ain't  you  'shamed  ?" 
Then  Miss  Crutcher  came  back  and  smiled  at 
the  children,  and  they  smiled  back  at  her  be 
cause  they  knew  something  she  did  n't  know  and 
could  n't  guess  at  all.  It  was  a  secret. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Crutcher  traded 
rooms  again,  and  the  little  children  gave  Miss 
Munsell  their  money,  and  she  counted  it,  and  it 
came  to  $2.84.  The  next  day  she  came  again 
because  there  were  three  that  had  n't  their 
money,  so  there  was  $2.88  at  last.  Miss  Munsell 
had  three  little  girls  go  with  her  after  school  to 
pick  out  the  present.  They  chose  a  silver-plated 
pickle  caster,  which  is  exactly  what  girls  of 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  273 

seven  will  choose,  and,  do  you  know,  it  came  ex 
actly  to  $2.88  ? 

Then,  on  the  last  day  of  school,  Miss  Munsell 
came  in,  and,  with  the  three  little  girls  standing 
on  the  platform  and  following  every  move  with 
their  eyes  as  a  dog  watches  his  master,  she  gave 
the  caster  to  Miss  Crutcher  and  Miss  Crutcher 
cried,  she  was  so  surprised.  They  were  tears  of 
joy,  she  said.  After  that,  she  went  into  Miss 
Munsell's  room,  and  three  little  girls  in  there 
gave  Miss  Munsell  a  copy  of  Tennyson's  poems 
that  cost  exactly  $2.53,  which  was  what  Miss 
Crutcher  had  collected,  and  Miss  Munsell  cried 
because  she  was  so  surprised.  How  they  could 
guess  that  she  wanted  a  copy  of  Tennyson's 
poems,  she  could  n't  think,  but  she  would  al 
ways  keep  the  book  and  prize  it  because  her  dear 
pupils  had  given  it  to  her.  And  just  as  Selma 
Morgenroth  called  out  to  the  monitor,  Charley 
Freer,  who  sat  in  Miss  Crutcher's  chair,  while 
she  was  absent:  "Teacher!  Make  Miky  Ryan  he 
should  ka-vit  a-pullin'  at  my  hair  yet!"  and  the 
school  was  laughing  because  she  called  Charley 
Freer  "teacher,"  in  came  Miss  Crutcher  as  cross 
as  anything,  and  boxed  Miky  Ryan's  ears  and 


274  BACK  HOME 

shook  Selma  Morgenroth  for  making  so  much 
noise.  They  did  n't  give  anything,  though  they 
promised  they  would. 

It  was  not  alone  in  the  day  schools  that  there 
were  extra  preparations.  The  Sunday-schools 
were  getting  ready,  too,  and  when  Janey  Pettit 
came  home  and  told  her  Pa  how  big  her  class 
was,  he  started  to  say  something,  but  her  Ma 
shook  her  head  at  him  and  he  looked  very  serious 
and  seemed  to  be  trying  hard  not  to  smile.  He 
was  very  much  interested,  though,  when  she  told 
him  that  Iky  Morgenroth,  whose  father  kept  the 
One-Price  Clothing  House  down  on  Main  Street, 
had  joined,  and  how  he  did  n't  know  enough  to 
take  his  hat  off  when  he  came  into  church.  Patsy 
Gubbins  and  Miky  Ryan  and  six  boys  from  the 
Baptist  Sunday-School  had  joined,  too,  and  they 
all  went  into  Miss  Sarepta  Downey's  class,  so 
that  she  had  two  whole  pews  full  to  teach,  and 
they  acted  just  awful.  The  infant  class  was 
crowded,  and  there  was  one  little  boy  that 
grabbed  for  the  collection  when  it  was  passed  in 
front  of  him,  and  got  a  whole  handful  and 
would  n't  give  it  up,  and  they  had  to  twist  the 
money  out  of  his  fist,  and  he  screamed  and  "hoi- 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  275 

lered"  like  he  was  being  killed.  And  coming 
home,  Sophy  Perkins,  who  goes  to  the  Baptist 
Church,  told  her  that  there  was  n't  going  to  be 
any  Christmas  tree  at  their  Sabbath-school.  She 
said  that  there  was  n't  hardly  anybody  out.  The 
teachers  just  sat  round  and  finally  went  into  the 
pastor's  Bible  class.  Mr.  Pettit  said  he  was  sur 
prised  to  hear  it.  It  could  n't  have  been  the 
weather  that  kept  them  away,  could  it  ?  Janey 
said  she  did  n't  know.  Then  he  asked  her  what 
they  were  going  to  sing  for  Christmas,  and  she 
began  on  "We  three  kings  of  Orient  are,"  and 
broke  off  to  ask  him  what  "Orient"  meant,  and 
he  told  her  that  Orient  was  out  on  the  Sunbury 
pike,  about  three  miles  this  side  of  Olive  Green, 
and  her  Ma  said:  "Lester  Pettit,  I  wish't  you  'd 
ever  grow  up  and  learn  how  to  behave  yourself. 
Why,  honey,  it  means  the  East.  The  three  wise 
men  came  from  the  East,  don't  you  mind  ?" 

At  the  Centre  Street  M.  E.  Church,  where 
Janey  Pettit  went  to  Sunday-school,  there  were 
big  doings.  Little  Lycurgus  Emerson,  whose 
mother  sent  him  down  to  Littell's  in  a  hurry  for 
two  pounds  of  brown  sugar,  and  who  had  al 
ready  been  an  hour  and  a  half  getting  past  Plot- 


276  BACK   HOME 

ner's  and  Case's,  heard  Brother  Littell  and  Abel 
Horn  talking  over  what  they  had  decided  at  the 
"fishery  meetin'."  (By  the  time  Curg  got  so  that 
he  shaved,  he  knew  that  "officiary"  was  the 
right  way  to  say  it,  just  as  "certificate"  is  the 
right  way  to  say  "stiffcut.")  There  was  going  to 
be  a  Christmas  tree  clear  up  to  the  ceiling,  all 
stuck  full  of  candles  and  strung  with  pop-corn, 
and  a  chimney  for  Santa  Claus  to  climb  down 
and  give  out  the  presents  and  call  out  the  names 
on  them.  Every  child  in  the  Sunday-school  was 
to  get  a  bag  of  candy  and  an  orange,  and  there 
were  going  to  be  "exercises."  Curg  thought  it 
would  be  kind  of  funny  to  go  through  gymnas 
tics,  but,  just  then,  he  saw  Uncle  Billy  Nichol 
son  come  in,  and  he  hid.  He  did  n't  want  to  be 
patted  on  the  head  and  --  asked  things. 

Uncle  Billy  had  his  mouth  all  puckered  up, 
and  his  eyebrows  looked  more  like  tooth 
brushes  than  ever.  He  put  down  the  list  of  gro 
ceries  that  Aunt  Libby  had  written  out  for  him, 
because  he  could  n't  remember  things  very  well, 
and  commenced  to  lay  down  the  law. 

"Such  carryin's  on  in  the  house  o'  God!"  he 
snorted.  "Why  the  very  idy!  Talk  about  them 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  277 

Pharisees  an'  Sadducees  a-makin'  the  temple  a 
den  o'  thieves!  W'y,  you're  a-turnin'  it  into  a 
theayter  with  your  play-actin'  tomfoolery! 
They  '11  be  no  blessin'  on  it,  now  you  mark." 

"Aunt  Libby  say  whether  she  wanted  stoned 
raisins  ?"  asked  Brother  Littell,  who  was  copy 
ing  off  the  list  on  the  order  book. 

"I  disremember,  but  you  better  send  up  the 
reg'lar  raisins.  Gittin'  too  many  newfangled 
contraptions  these  days.  They  're  a-callin'  it  a 
theayter  right  now,  the  Babtists  is.  What  you 
astin'  fer  your  eatin'  apples  ?  Whew!  My  souls 
alive!  I  don't  wonder  you  grocery  storekeepers 
git  rich  in  a  hurry.  No,  I  guess  you  need  n't  send 
'ny  up.  Taste  too  strong  o'  money.  Don't  have 
no  good  apples  now  no  more  anyways.  All  so 
dried  up  and  pethy.  An'  what  is  it  but  a  theayter, 
I  'd  like  to  know  ?  Weth  your  lectures  about  the 
Ar'tic  regions  an'  your  mum-socials,  an'  all  like 
that,  chargin'  money  fer  to  git  in  the  meetin' 
house.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Brother  Littell,  the 
women  folks  'd  take  the  money  they  fritter  away 
on  ribbons  and  artificial  flowers  an'  gold  an'cost- 
ly  apparel,  which  I  have  saw  them  turned  away 
from  the  love-feast  fer  wearin',  an'  'ud  give  it  in 


278  BACK  HOME 

fer  quarterage  an*  he'p  support  the  preachin'  of 
the  Word,  they  would  n't  need  to  be  no  shows  in 
the  meetin'  house  an*  they  'd  be  more  expeeri- 
mental  religion." 

Abel  Horn  (Abel  led  the  singing  in  meeting, 
and  had  a  loud  bass  voice;  he  always  began  be 
fore  everybody  and  ended  after  everybody)  was 
standing  behind  Uncle  Billy,  and  Lycurgus 
could  see  him  with  his  head  juked  forward 
and  his  eyebrows  up  and  his  mouth  wide  open  in 
silent  laughter,  very  disconcerting  to  Brother 
Littell,  who  did  n't  want  to  anger  Uncle 
Billy,  and  maybe  lose  his  trade  by  grinning  in 
his  face. 

"An'  now  you  got  to  go  an'  put  up  a  Christ 
mas  tree  right  in  the  altar,"  stormed  Uncle  Billy, 
"an*  dike  it  all  out  with  pop-corn  an'  candles. 
You  're  gittin'  as  bad  's  the  Catholics,  every  bit. 
Worse,  I  say,  becuz  they  never  had  the  Gospel 
light,  an'  is  jist  led  round  by  the  priest  an'  have 
to  pay  to  git  their  sins  forgive.  But  you,  you  're 
a-walkin'  right  smack  dab  into  it,  weth  your 
eyes  open,  teachin'  fer  Gospel  the  inventions  o' 


men." 


W'y  what,  Uncle  Billy  ? 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  279 

"W'y,  this  here  Santy  Claus  a-climbin'  down 
a  chimley  an'  a-cuttin'  up  didoes  fer  to  make 
them  little  ones  think  they  is  a  reel  Santy  Claus 
'cuz  they  seen  him  to  the  meetin'  house.  Foot 
soon  when  they  git  a  little  older  'n'  they  find  out 
how  you  been  a-foohV  'em  about  Santy  Ciaus, 
they  '11  wonder  if  what  you  been  a-tellin'  'em 
about  the  Good  Man  ain't  off  o'  the  same  bolt  o 
goods,  an'  another  one  o'  them  cunningly  de 
vised  fables.  Think  they  '11  come  any  blessin'  on 
tellin'  a  lie  ?  An'  a-actin'  it  out  ?  No,  sir.  No,  sir. 
Ain't  ary  good  thing  to  a  lie,  no  way  you  kin  fix  it. 
How  kin  they  be  ?  Who  's  the  father  of  lies  ?  W'y 
the  Old  Scratch!  That  's  who.  An'  here  you  go 
a  —  " 

The  old  man  was  so  wroth  that  he  could  n't 
finish  and  turned  and  stamped  out,  slamming 
the  door  after  him. 

Brother  Littell  winked  and  waited  till  Mr. 
Nicholson  got  out  before  he  mildly  observed: 
"  Kind  o'  hot  in  under  the  collar,  'pears  like." 

"Righteous  mad,  I  s'pose,"  said  Abel  Horn. 

"You  waited  on  yit,  bub?"  asked  Brother 
Littell.  "I  betchy  he  's  a-thinkin'  right  now  he  '11 
take  his  letter  out  o'  Centre  Street  an*  go  to  the 


280  BACK  HOME 

Barefoot  Church.  He  would,  too,  if  't  was  n't 
clean  plumb  at  the  fur  end  o'  town  an*  a  reg'lar 
mud-hole  to  git  there." 

"Pity  him  an*  a  few  more  of  'em  up  in  the 
Amen  corner  would  n't  go,"  said  Abel  Horn. 
"Mind  the  time  we  sung,  'There  is  a  Stream  ?' 
You  know  they  's  a  solo  in  it  fer  the  soprano. 
Well,  't  is  kind  o'  operatic  an'  skallyhootin'  up 
an'  down  the  scale.  I  give  the  solo  to  Tilly  Wil- 
kerson  an'  if  that  old  skeezicks  did  n't  beller 
right  out  in  the  middle  of  it:  'It's  a  disgrace  tud 
Divine  service!'  He  did.  You  could  'a'  heard  him 
clear  to  the  court-house.  My!  I  thought  I  'd  go 
up.  Tilly,  she  was  kind  o'  scared  an'  trimbly,  but 
she  stuck  to  it  like  a  major.  Said  afterwards  she  'd 
'a'  finished  that  solo  if  it  was  the  last  act  she  ever 
done." 

"Who's  a-goin'  to  be  Santy  Claus?"  asked 
Brother  Littell,  with  cheerful  irrevelance. 

"The  committee  thought  that  had  better  be 
kept  a  secret,"  replied  Abel,  with  as  much  dig 
nity  as  his  four  feet  nine  would  admit  of. 

"Ort  to  be  somebody  kind  o'  heavy-set,  ort  n't 
it  ?"  hinted  the  grocer,  giving  a  recognizable  de 
scription  of  himself. 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  281 

"Well,  I  don'  know  'bout  that,"  contested 
Abel.  "Git  somebody  kind  o'  spry  an*  he  could 
pad  out  weth  a  piller.  A  pussy  man  'd  find  it 
rather  onhandy  comin'  down  that  chimbly  an* 
hoppin'  hether  an'  yan  takin'  things  off  o'  the 
tree.  Need  somebody  weth  a  good  strong  voice, 
too,  to  call  off  the  names.  .  .  .  Woosh't 
you  'd  git  them  things  up  to  the  house  soon  's 
you  kin,  Otho.  Ma  Js  in  a  hurry  fer  'em." 

"  Betchy  two  cents,"  said  Brother  Littell  to  his 
clerk,  Clarence  Bowersox,  "'at  Abel  Horn  '11  be 
Santy  Claus." 

"Git  out!"  doubted  Clarence. 
"LI,  you  see  now.  He  's  the  daggonedest  fel 
ler  to  crowd  himself  in  an'  be  the  head  leader  o' 
everything.  W'y,  he  ain't  no  more  call  to  be 
Santy  Claus  'n  that  hitchin'  post  out  yan.  Little, 
dried-up  runt,  bald  's  a  apple.  Told  me  one  time: 
'I  never  grow'd  a'  inch  tell  I  was  sixteen  'n'  then 
I  shot  up  like  a  weed.'  .  .  .  Bub,  you  tell 
yer  Ma  if  she  wants  a  turkey  fer  Christmas  she 
better  be  gittin'  her  order  in  right  quick." 

Only  six  more  days  till  Christmas  now  — 
only  five  —  only  four  —  only  three  —  only  two 


28z  BACK  HOME 

—  Christmas  Eve.  One  day  more  of  holding  in 
such  swelling  secrets,  and  some  of  the  young 
folks  would  have  popped  right  wide  open.  Fam 
ilies  gather  about  the  Franklin  stove,  Pa  and  Ma 
gaping  and  rubbing  their  eyes  —  saying,  "Oh, 
hum!"  and  making  out  that  they  are  just  plumb 
perishing  for  the  lack  of  sleep.  But  the  children 
cannot  take  the  hint.  They  don't  want  to  go  to 
bed.  The  imminence  of  a  great  event  nerves  them 
in  their  hopeless  fight  against  the  hosts  of  Nod. 
They  sit  and  stare  with  bulging  eyes  at  the  red 
coals  and  dancing  flames,  spurting  out  here  and 
there  like  tiny  sabers. 

The  mystic  hour  draws  near.  Sometime  in  the 
night  will  come  the  jingle  of  silver  bells,  and  the 
patter  of  tiny  hoofs.  Old  Santa  will  halloo: 
"Whoa!"  and  come  sliding  down  the  chimney. 
The  drowsing  heads,  fuddled  with  weariness, 
wrestle  clumsily  with  the  problem,  "How  is  he 
to  get  through  the  stove  without  burning  him 
self?"  Reason  falters  and  Faith  triumphs.  It 
would  be  done  somehow,  and  then  the  reindeer 
would  fly  to  the  next  house,  and  the  next,  and  so 
on,  and  so  on.  The  mystic  hour  draws  near.  Like 
a  tidal  wave  it  rolls  around  the  world,  foaming 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  283 

at  its  crest  in  a  golden  spray  of  gifts  and  love. 
The  mystic  hour. 

"Oh,  just  a  little  longer,  just  a  little  longer." 

"No,  no.  You  cain't  hardly  prop  your  eyes 
open  now.  Come  now.  Get  to  bed.  Now,  Elmer 
Lonnie;  now,  Mary  Ellen;  now,  Janey;  now,  Ed 
die;  now,  Lycurgus.  Don't  be  naughty  at  the  last 
minute  and  say,  'I  don't  want  to,'  or  else  Santa 
Claus  won't  come  a-near.  No,  sir." 

After  the  last  drink  of  water  and  the  last  "Now 
I  lay  me,"  a  long  pause.  .  .  .Then  from  the 
spare  bed-room  the  loud  rustling  of  stiff  paper, 
the  snap  of  broken  string,  and  whispers  of, 
"Won't  her  eyes  stick  out  when  she  sees  that!" 
and,  "He 's  been  just  fretting  for  a  sled;  I  'm  so 
glad  it  was  so  't  we  could  get  it  for  him,"  and, 
"  I  s'pose  we  ort  n't  to  spent  so  much,  but  seems 
like  with  such  nice  young  ones  's  we  've  got 
't  ain't  no  more  'n  right  we  should  do  for  'em  all 
we  can  afford,  'n'  mebby  a  little  more.  Janey  's 
'stiffcut'  said  she  was  100  in  everything,  deport 
ment  an'  all." 

At  one  house  something  white  slips  down  the 
staircase  to  where  a  good  view  can  be  had 
through  the  half-open  parlor  door.  It  pauses 


284  BACK  HOME 

when  a  step  cracks  loudly  in  the  stillness.  The 
parlor-door  is  slammed  to. 

"D'  you  think  he  saw?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  'm  afraid  so.  Little  tyke!" 

Something  white  creeps  back  and  crawls  into 
bed.  A  heart  thumps  violently  under  the  covers, 
and  two  big,  round  eyes  stare  up  at  the  dark  ceil 
ing.  Somebody  has  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  the  Tree 
of  Knowledge,  and  the  gates  of  Eden  have  shut 
behind  him  forever. 

He  does  not  sense  that  now;  he  is  glad  in  the 
exulting  consciousness  that  he  is  "a  little  kid"  no 
longer.  Pretty  soon  he  '11  be  a  man,  and  then. 
.  .  .  and  then.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  grand 
things  are  to  happen  then! 

The  mutual  gifts  are  brought  out  with  many 
a  shame-faced:  "It  looks  awful  little,  but  't  was 
the  best  I  could  do  for  the  money.  You  see  I 
spent  more  on  the  children  than  I  lotted  to,"  and 
many  a  cheerful  fib  of:  "Why,  that's  exactly 
what  I  've  been  wishing  for."  Some  poor  fools, 
that  have  never  learned  and  never  will  learn  that 
the  truest  word  ever  spoken  is :  "  It  is  more  bless 
ed  to  give  than  to  receive,"  make  their  husbands 
a  present  of  a  parlor  lamp  or  a  pair  of  lace  cur- 


CHRISTMAS   BACK  HOME  285 

tains,  and  their  wives  a  present  of  a  sack  of  flour, 
or  enough  muslin  to  make  half  a  dozen  shirts. 
And  there  are  deeper  depths.  There  are  such 
words  as:  "What  possessed  you  to  buy  me  that 
old  thing?  Well,  I  won't  have  it!  Now!"  The 
stove-door  is  slammed  open  and  the  gift 
crammed  in  upon  the  coals,  and  two  people  sit 
there  with  lips  puffed  out,  chests  heaving  and 
hearts  burning  with  hate. 

It  is  the  truth,  but  cover  it  up.  Cover  it  up. 
Turn  away  the  head.  On  this  Holy  Night  of  Illu 
sion  let  us  forget  the  truth  for  once.  There  are 
three  hundred  and  sixty-four  other  nights  in 
which  to  consider  the  eternal  verities.  On  this 
one,  let  us  be  as  little  children.  "Let  us  now  go 
even  to  Bethlehem  and  see  this  thing  which  is 
come  to  pass." 

The  mystic  hour  draws  nigh.  The  lights  go 
out,  one  by  one.  The  watchman  at  the  flax  mills 
rings  the  bell,  and  they  that  are  waking  count 
the  strokes  that  tremble  in  the  frosty  air.  Eleven 
o'clock.  Father  and  mother  sit  silent  by  the  fire. 
The  tree  in  the  corner  of  the  room  flashes  its  tin- 
selry  in  the  dying  light.  A  cinder  tinkles  on  the 
hearth.  Their  thoughts  are  one.  "He  would  be 


286  BACK  HOME 

nine  years  old,  if  he  had  lived,"  murmurs  the 
mother.  Their  hands  grope  for  each  other,  meet 
and  clasp.  Something  aches  in  their  throats.  The 
red  coals  swell  and  blur  into  a  formless  mass. 

The  mystic  hour  is  come.  The  town  sleeps. 
The  moon  rides  high  in  the  clear  heavens.  The 
wind  sighs  in  the  fir  trees.  Faint  and  far-off 
across  the  centuries  sounds  the  chant  of  angels. 

The  hour  is  come. 


THE    END 


THE     McCLURE     PRESS.      NEW     YORK 


IVE.RSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 

'     '          ^   I'     -RT?.-RTrV!T.T7!V 


BERKELEY 


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